A/n. I know I need to work on other stories, but my computer isn't with me right now, and I don't want anyone to know that I'm, the real me, writing these, so here's a letter drabble.
Dear Center of Disease Control,
I was bored so I thought I'd let you know. You are a self-centered, arrogant, Elvis wannabe. (why else would you put so much gel in your hair?) Who I heavily despise. You may think that this letter is useless, but here's the fun part. If you don't give back our parking space, and you don't go and tell the press that you lied, that I only kissed you to get back at James Conroy, then you will die on the nearest Tuesday. And don't tell me you don't believe in that chain letter humbo jumbo cause we managed to get some stuff out of Portlyn.
Your's truly,
Sonny.
Dear overly obnoxious headache,
Her real name isn't Portlyn. That is her show name. And what color underwear do I have on than?
Your's truly,
Chad.
Dear CDC, blue, and nobody knows her real name.
Your's truly,
Sonny.
Dear ASM,
How do you know that, portlyn doesn't know what color they are.
Your's truly,
Chad
Dear Chad, don't bend down next time you drop something.
Your's truly,
Sonny.
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He walked up to me "Oooooh!" "Yeah." we were sitting across from each other, throwing notes.