Friday, November 30, 2007

Open Letter To Grandma

Yesterday, I woke up with a migraine again for the first time in a year and a half. I have no idea what triggered it, but I found that Halls seem to provide temporary relief to where I can, you know, stand up and function in society. As soon as the cough drop is gone, the migraine returns.

I slept for about five hours yesterday afternoon and got up with the intention of doing stuff, but I woke up with a faint hint of a headache. I ignored it, figuring it to be a caffeine withdrawal since I had none on Wednesday. I drank a can of Pepsi and proceeded to do stuff and the headache grew more persistent until I couldn't stand noise or light and it was accompanied by pangs of moderate to severe nausea. I realized then that I had a migraine, so I laid back down in the dark and went to sleep for another twelve hours straight. When I woke up the migraine was still there.

Anyway, now I'm up because I don't think my body can stand any more sleep. My sleep schedule is fucked all to hell, too, thanks to this. I thought I would write a little and let you know not to expect anything of any quality until this migraine goes away. Not that you expect anything of any quality anyway, right? Until then, there is one thing that I feel needs to be said.

Dear Grandma,

Your cookies suck. No matter what cookie you attempt to mass-produce and prepackage in some factory to be sold in gas stations across America, they all turn out tasting the same, and none of them are good. All of your cookies taste like glue. Chocolate chip, double chocolate chip, sugar, peanut butter, all taste exactly like Elmer's school glue smells. Even when you come out with special flavors like gingerbread or spiced molasses, they all taste like glue. Even your iced lemon cookies tasted like glue. How the fuck do you screw up lemon cookies?

When you start confusing Elmer's school glue as a baking ingredient, it's time to retire from the mass market cookie-making industry. All of your cookies are made out of equal parts god-awful flavor and dismal failure. Enjoy your senility at the retirement home where you can pour Elmer's glue down your own gullet until you die, you old crone.



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