Dear Creators of the spherical chocolate orbs that shall forevermore be known as 'M&Ms' and eternally dissolve their encrusted candy exoskeletons on the many-budded ruby tongues of the ardent connoisseurs of refined sucrose treats throughout the universe,

You suck.

Love,
L'il Jessie Esq.

P.S. Ever since the tan "M&M," which is the color of the many-jeweled beach of the only pleasant dream of my banal existence, the only dream that has ever offered me any miniscule respite from the harrowing night terrors that descend wickedly upon me every freaking P.M., my sleep interrupted and terrifying at best, waking only to watch the dawn bleed through the eastern skies and hear the sirens of the ambulances echo about in the dewy air, rising from my maggot-ridden spring-shot bed in a tiny damp room of a tall gray building in the projects - my only hope, my only raison d'être, my only purpose in dragging my weary body from the previously mentioned decrepit bed in the morning was the prospect of eating a single radiant, lovely burnished gold "M&M," the chocolate treat the color of the muted bronze of ancient Grecian temples that I'll never see because I live in the freaking projects, the Dante's Inferno of Eau Claire, Wisconsin - eating this one glorious tan "M&M" was the only point of light among the otherwise deadly dark abyss of my "supper," which still consists of only a chunk of lettuce and a bloated grain of rice, distributed to me daily in the torpid squalor of the EC projects by a carbuncular Salvation Army worker - but ever since the tan "M&M" was torn away from its previously euphoric existence amongst its colorful peers, like a bitter parent ripping the most beloved child from the weakened arms of her weeping spouse (in this manner the blue razzberry "M&M" banished its tan nemesis from existence), ever since this skipped moment in the previously unfailingly steady tick of Mother Nature's clock, I have been living as a zombie - alas, a vegetarian zombie - a human without a soul, and so I would wish to scribe this letter with my blood and seal it with the sticky bitter pulp of my everflowing tears, though unfortunately my poor lack of a diet sufficient in nutrients in the EC projects has caused my blood to be contained almost entirely in only the lower half of my shriveled body and my tears to smell like the sweet flowers adorning Cupid's loincloth - which would not be appropriate for a sad correspondence such as this and so, in closing, please send me any merchandise, propaganda, and/or samples you may have.

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