Dear Mr. The Season of Spring,

Just what exactly is your beef with me? You've been plaguing me since I was eight years old, and I have no clue what I did to deserve this sort of treatment.

You went relatively easy on me as a kid, cursing me only mildly with an allergy to pollen. Sure, my body throws the equivalent of a temper tantrum every time I walk near a blooming flower or a tree, but the lovely people at Target are always happy to sell me as much Benadryl and Claritin as I can carry.

But now, Mr. Spring, you've crossed the line too many times. This is the fourth year you've presented me with a Hell Week, and I have yet to find a medication to take away the pain. Even after inhaling four pounds of chocolate in the past four days—trust me, I tallied it all up—and watching The Lord of the Rings every night for a week, I'm still using up more tissues than will fit in my trash can.

In summary, I'm tired of being heartbroken and sad every Spring when the rest of the world is falling in love. Please, try to find it in your heart to forgive me for whatever wretched crime I committed against your lovely season back in my childhood. I'm running out of excuses for the mascara trails under my eyes.

Sincerely,
Rachelskirts

Mom: dad says hi
Mom: I'm gonna go eat - enjoy your Easter box tomorrow (or on Easter if you decide to wait)
Mom: luv u
Me: Alright. Love you, too (and Dad! Hi, Dad!). Bye!
Mom: bye from dad
Mom: he doesn't love you quite so much
Mom: :-)
Mom: I LOVE driving the computer
Me: hahahahaha
Mom: total control

I don't know what is scarier about that chunk of conversation . . . the fact that my mother uses internet slang or the fact that I am quite obviously doomed to be a demonic control freak for the rest of my life.

Anyone who had the misfortune to be in my general vicinity last night would have described me as "more than mildly cranky." I had come to the sad realization that, in due time, all my closest friends will be stolen away by girls.

Now, this school "suffers" from a shortage of females, particularly available ones. The ratio of guys to girls is somewhere in the neighborhood of seven to one. The dudes on campus aren't too psyched about this, but I've been stupidly enjoying the fact that I can hang out with fifteen guys at a time without the interference of some air-headed, Barbie-bodied girl.

With the marriage of one of my favorite male friends looming on the horizon, I have decided that it is necessary to kill off all females, or at least all the ones who threaten my friendships. The only thing holding me back at this point is the lack of a cool serial killer name. I don't want to leave something that important up to the journalists in this area, so I'm going to have to create t-shirts with my alias and story on them which I will put on the bodies of my victims.

Thankfully, that idea — much more alarming in print than it was in my head — requires effort which I don't foresee myself expending at any point during this lifetime. I mean, I can't even bother to find something more interesting to do in my boredom than to play Spider Solitaire for hours on end. Furthermore, I have plenty of not-so-creepy shirts which need to be created before I can even think about wasting time and money on morbid paraphernalia.

So to all the girls out there threatening to steal away my boys, be grateful that I am lazy and behind in my shirt-making. Also, for the love of all things holy, keep your grubby paws away from my friends.