In fourth grade, I had to sew myself a kiton and compete in my school’s annual Greek Olympics. When I placed first in the 50-yard dash, an ivy wreath was placed atop my head, thereby making the win that much more awesome. I have yet to understand the appeal of your mythology but I’m willing to forgive you for that torture in light of your tasty baklava. Anyway, now that you’ve single-handedly tanked the euro, I’d like to personally thank you for making my dream of spending two weeks hopping across your islands more of a reality.
Packing Her Bags Paige
Dear Squat Machine:
The Girl That Grunts Fuck You With Every Exhale
From those sugar nuts to the roasted potatoes, you have made me the talk of the table. While I always knew I could cook, you have reminded me I can cook pretty damn well. My friends thank you. My expanding ass? Not so much.
Dear Little Paige:
Your mom will put you on diets even though you are not fat and she will hire a collection of tutors even though you aren’t stupid. She will drag you to the orthodontist four times, pleading with him to correct your perfect teeth with braces. She will call your eighth grade paper shit and keep you up all night at the kitchen table rewriting it to her specifications. Then she will keep you home the next day to type it up. You’ll think you’re not good enough because that’s what you were told, not because it’s true. Trust me. Trust everyone who compliments you and praises you. You’re good enough.