June 21, 2011

Letter #1

Dear My House,

Hi there. We haven’t chatted in a while. How have you been? I’m great, thanks for asking.

So, I have a couple of things that I want to talk to you about. Just a few things, don’t worry too much. Now don’t get me wrong, you’re great. You’ve been doing your house-y thing just fantastically for the last twelve years. You’ve sheltered me from the rain, you’ve kept me warm in the winter, you’ve housed (haha, punny) my entire life’s possessions, and without a single complaint either! That kind of dedication is admirable, truly, and I respect you for it, I really do. You’ve been the location of countless study sessions and slumber parties, you’ve been home to (Haha, punny again. There sure are a lot of house-related colloquialisms and phrases of speech out there.) a plethora of childhood memories and experiences, and never once did you tell me that a pair of jeans made me look fat (even when I knew they really did) or judge me for singing in the shower.

That being said, I think we should address a couple of things. Okay, one thing. Now, normally I wouldn’t say anything – I don’t want to be a bother – but this is kind of a major concern.

We have to talk about the spiders.

I know, I know – you’re really friendly, and you like people and nature and whatnot. However, that doesn’t make it okay for you to let those little eight-legged aberrations take up residence in your welcoming nooks and crannies. Especially because I have to live here, too, and I’m not the biggest fan of spiders.

Spiders are gross. And when I come home from five days of arachnid-slaying, the last thing I need is to see one of those monsters in my sink or in my pool or in my shower or by my front door or in my garage or descending right in front of my face and then hiding in my couch.

It’s really not cool.

And this seems to be a new problem – but a problem nonetheless, and one that must be remedied quickly if at all possible.

Now, I don’t want to tell you how to do your job. You’ve got this housing thing down cold, and that’s fine by me – I’d rather be off walking around or something (sorry to rub your face in that, I know it must be hard to live your life as a stationary object). But we should at least be able to come up with some sort of happy compromise, right? Write me back if you’re willing to work on this issue with me. I’m sure that if we talk this through we can manage to make sure everyone is happy.

Love always,

P.S. We’re still cool, right?


  1. It's not going to write back.

  2. You don't know that. My house and I have a special connection. We're secret best friends.