You’ve Got Me Writing Love Letters

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Dear Artificial Turf (of the mossy hue, not emerald),
I was enamored by your bristles after seeing a two-by-two in a corporate office, lazing around on the cubicle desk like a customizable space a la “Sims 2 — Open for Business.” To say that the “Astro-T” is becoming a staple for interior workspace design is an underestimate. By the year 2020, I expect the mass production of synthetic greens to reach an all-time high, incorporating solar absorbents and various styles, whether that be a trim, Ronaldo sportscut — perfect for stadium games — or tall enough for wild Pokemon to roam, for you virtual gamers. Artificial turf, you are the herald of modernity. Thanks to you, everyone can now own a patch of green on their rooftops or neglect their lawn like they neglect current world events. I am just waiting for the moment where you become the world’s hottest, most fought over commodity — mark the headliners for 2020, “ALIENS INVADE FOR ASTRO TURF, PEW PEW.” Until then, I will comfortably lie on you as if you were real grass.

XOXO,
Grass Aficionado

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Prismacolor Double-Ended Brush Tip Marker in Light Peach —

Your provocative tart shade radiated among the flowerbed of color. All I saw was potential and possibility, skies and shy blushes punctuated with a provence rose wine. I quickly purchased you.

But once I had you, I became fearfully attached. I didn’t want to lose you — to waste you.

Nonetheless, they say that if you love something, you need to learn let it go.

I let you go — and I fell that much more in love. You were submissive to the religion of science, bleeding through paper with graceful diffusion. You became an Eve to the masculine strokes of ink and graphite, saturating cheeks and tear ducts and pouts with the color of peonies. You gave life, but had an achingly exhaustive supply, weeping out love at each stroke until you became nothing more than a withered bud with a deskside grave.

(Good thing such romance costs an economical $5 at the local art store.)

Yours,
Maria

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Dear ‘80s movies,

You’re, like, totally tubular! I really dig all your cheesy one-liners, awesome soundtracks and overly elaborate chase-to-get-the-girl scenes. You’ve always been there to teach me important life lessons from living in the moment a la Ferris Bueller, to the big hair and really cool dance moves that can get any party started. It is you I have to thank for my expectations when it comes to love and chivalry. Though I’m still waiting for my Patrick Dempsey to pick me up on the back of his lawnmower while “Can’t Buy Me Love” plays and we kiss off into the sunset, I know that in the meantime, I’ll always have you.

Forever Yours,
Shelby

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To the framed antique portraits of classic Hollywood stars at Imaginarium,

The level of nostalgia is unbearable when I look at all the photographs of legendary actors and actresses your precious frames protect and I can’t help but feel honored to have held your sharp, antique rims in my young hands last summer. From Audrey Hepburn’s timeless elegance to Cary Grant’s handsome charisma among many others, all of you still have a special place in my soft heart. There are days when my emotions would get the best of me as I tear up thinking about how I could have purchased all of you at the Imaginarium in Nebraska. Except I didn’t. I am truly sorry.

Please still love me,
Ian

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A love note to all the Uber drivers,

You have always been there for me when I needed you. Yes, I have been told that being around you is like a Russian roulette, that one day I might get hurt. But I have always fully trusted you — you have never ditched me, never had me waiting. You were always happy to go on a any adventure, anywhere in the world, and I was happy just being there next to you. San Francisco, Moscow, Berlin — together we visited places that are so dear to my heart, sharing memories of tranquil sunrises, lazy afternoons and those wild, wild nights.
You are right — this road has been bumpy at times. Sometimes it felt like we were catching all red lights, like the silence between us lasted longer than a road trip from San Diego to Seattle, like there would be no light at the end of the tunnel. But in the end, I always knew that without you I was not going anywhere. That without your cheerful “Hi, is this Olga?” I would not hold out even for a week. Without those careless conversations, free gum and 30 percent limited-time discounts I am nothing.

My dear Uber driver, here’s to our 196 rides and more to come.

Forever yours,
Olga, the Passenger

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To my one and only microwaveable breakfast burrito,

You caught my eye (and ear) at first beep, but I knew our love was unrequited from the start. Tragically stuck in the stone ages and living in an apartment sans microwave, the frozen glass door will forever bar the heartwarming feeling of having your cold, tortilla wrapped goodness in my hands. Some might contest: “Why you over a fresh breakfast burrito?” But I digress, are they readily available at 2 a.m.? Do they produce the same euphoric effect that one might get from witnessing it steam “fresh” out of a microwave? Can you stock them in Costco sized boxes in your freezer for months at a time? I didn’t think so. So for those lucky enough to call you breakfast regularly, may they never forget how fortunate they are to call you theirs. The cornerstone of convenience, the medley of breakfast’s best, salsa’s soulmate — there’s no part of our hearts you can’t fill. While this small affair cannot account to much, you will always have a place in my heart (and stomach).

With all my love,
Brittney, the Burrito Enthusiast
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