Dearest Boxes,

 You are made of cardboard, so I love your compounding skills and your [costing little] way of thinking.

But you are also flammable, bash-in-able, rained-on-able, and spider-home-making-able, so I do not love you.

You are useful for storing things in, and so roomy that I feel obliged to fill you to the [highest point or part; apex] with all manner of things, so I love you.

But you gain [quantities of mass and heaviness] quickly and it takes what seems like [two times, as in succession] the time for you to lose it all again, so I do not love you.

When I was a [person between birth and full growth], I could sit comfortably in even the smallest of your kin, so I love you for the hours of fun you afforded me.

But I am not a child, and only [a cold, large container to store perishable food and drink in] boxes can fit me now – and how often do I get to have such a large box? Not often, unfortunately – and so, I do not love you.

You have helped me to transfer my things from point A to point B with relative ease and trip-saving, and so, I love you.

But my [small, domesticated carnivore from the family Felidae] is endeared to poking around in your contents and you do nothing to stop him – thus, you do nothing to stop the breaking of said contents – and so, I do not love you.

I have a time-machine. It's a cardboard box that I sharpied "Time Machine" on.

And since we’re on the topic of cats, may I remind you of Schrodinger’s cat? Put a cat in a box, and, because you cannot see it, it is both [having life; existing] in the box, and also [no longer living; inanimate] in the box, because, really, how could you or it tell? Only the box truly knows.

This is another of those [of or pertaining to philosophy] conundrums. My love is inside of you, box. I cannot see it, and it cannot see itself. I do not know if it is alive and well, or dead as a doornail. Only you truly know, box.

I shall have to wait and unpack it to find out.

With many regards, affectations, and enthusiasm,

~Jennie

Dearest Starbucks,

How I’ve missed your overpriced, gourmet, hipster, burnt coffee! It’s been too long! I remember a [fourth dimension] when I would drink you and only you; when I thought you were the height of coffee-romanticism, with your classy décor and pleasant servers (all of which seem to like to do that awesome flip-the-cup-around-and-catch-it-like-a-boss routine (what I wouldn’t give to be able to do that!)). But now I know better. You are all [sounds made into thoughts] and no [movement propelling you in a specific direction].

Coffee! Yay.

Now, I don’t mean to be scathing, Starbucks, I really don’t, but I was disappointed in you, after having you for so long and then never drinking you for several months – I thought it would be romance rekindled! I was wrong. There is no spark; no flame to keep my love burning. I no longer love you. I may be being over-dramatic, but it’s the truth. I have become accustomed now to home-town [beans-crushed-and-turned-into-a-delicious-drink] shops, where their brew is slightly sweeter, and more affordable.

Do not fear! I do not regret the [green pieces of paper denoting varying worth] I have lavished upon you! There have been many a night when you were the only thing to keep me going! I have and will continue to appreciate that! I will also not regret our brief but ultimately disappointing fling this weekend. It was good while it lasted, but I have moved on to greener pastures.

This is not goodbye. This is merely an acknowledgement to let the good times stay good and to let the next times come and go as they do. No hard feelings on either side.

Hell, one day, I’ll bet we can sit together over some coffee and [make happy sounds] about this!

With many regards, affectations, and enthusiasm,

~Jennie

Dearest Road Trip,

Long [fourth dimension], no scenery, eh? It’s been a while since it’s just been the two of us. And Teasha. Sometimes I don’t really distinguish the difference between us. We’re like conjoined twins. Only, we’re not. You know?

I digress. I have missed you, miles of highway; occasional roadkill; [weary and/or bored] truck drivers. And I have missed the bigger cities (bigger, being, of course, a relative term) of Eugene and Portland. People honking at me when I don’t almost kill myself merging, the bustle of a crowd on the street – the street! Imagine! – a four story [store where books are sold] (although, this time around, we only got to go into a branch of it, across from the Bagdad theatre. Yes, I spell it British-ly. Don’t freak out.

There is something comforting about driving 500 miles with your best friend, to see your best friend, to go to a once-in-a-lifetime-concert, and driving 500 miles back [to our dwelling place]. It wears you out, sure, but there is a peacefulness too, in stopping at late-night coffee shops and asking insane questions to keep your brain functioning. (Just to fall down at your [barrier that opens and closes an entryway]!)

I always, always, learn something new when I’m with you, road trip. I should know. We’ve known each other since we were very small. My momma always said I was a good traveler; it’s because you always have been entertaining to me. Long enough to read a book in one go, comfortable enough to sit with other people and not feel the need to talk, boring enough to resort to 20 questions with someone you thought you knew pretty well (but hey! I didn’t know what she’d like to be if she had a profession in the wizarding world! Now I do!), and long enough to make the journey as worthwhile as the destination.

"Never go on trips with anyone you do not love." -Ernest Hemingway

I hope we will cross [a way beaten, formed, and/or trodden by persons and animals] again, as travelers and companions.

With many regards, affectations, and enthusiasm,

~Jennie