I could survive by scrounging through the garbage like anyone else. I'd be an excellent homeless person. I wouldn't even need a stupid sign. People would fork over money just because I'm a girl.
Eventually I'd be able to buy NEW stuff, which I'd store in a house with a bigger rent and more expensive utilities. And then I'd kill myself and we could do this all over again.
This letter is over. I'm sad to report I feel no better. You, the audience at Helium Dreammakers Inc have failed to provide an adequately-sized canvas on which my thoughts and feelings can be projected comfortably.

I can offer no sassy, smartass conclusion. No point. No overview of the material previously laid forth. For what it's worth, I'm left only with the desire to fold these thoughts and feelings up into ten paper airplanes and sail them out my window.

There exists an unexplained compulsion inside me to demonstrate a further level of seasonal incompetence. One so ludicrous and inappropriate it can only be understood on a purely emotional level. When I figure that out, I promise to be in touch once again.
In the meanwhile:

Please find attached a completed order form for that other product, the Sit 'n Spin 'n Commit Suicide, along with a cashier's check for eighty-nine dollars.



Very Truly Yours,

None of your business.