Dear mystery friend...maybe you shouldn't have sent me that text about doing a poo today!

When you texted me,
Sorry I announced out loud*
That you were pooing.

*don't worry. I was at work and not that many people heard.

To all my Canadian friends

I hope you have a
happy Canada Day and
get the day off work

Dear Mum and Dad, I really wanted to play netball and wear a skirt

Sorry I never
tried at playing basketball.
The pants* distressed me.

*They were called "bloomers" and were essentially a pair of polyester underpants in your team's colour, that you wore over your normal underpants. No skirt, no shorts, no track pants, just UNDERPANTS. The singlets were invariably ten sizes too big, with deep v necks and enormous arm-holes that left little girls in danger of exposing their bra-less nipples. How was a peri-pubescent girl supposed to care about sport when she was too busy worrying about exposing her blossoming lady bits? What pervert designed those uniforms? Even now, when I think about them, my arms instinctively move to pull at my singlet and try to cover my crotch.

To Dad, who doesn't even own that car any more

Sorry about that
time I parked your car somewhere
and it got a dent.

Letter to Tanya

I hope we shall soon
eat cupcakes together in
Portland, Oregon.

Dear sister, sorry I'd eat all your Easter eggs after mine were gone

You had have willpower
And could can save treats for weeks but
I could can not resist.

Dear Russell, sorry about that time I up-chucked at your 21st

Fluorescent orange.
All over your couch. And me.
I blame the Cheezels*.

(*Plus the alcohol may also have played a role. Sorry about that.)