Belén.

Dear mother,

Please excuse the awkwardness of this letter, for I am writing to you in a state of a heavily subdued hangover. That, however, is beside the point. I wanted to thank you for the belated Easter basket. (Well, if it is appropriate to call it an Easter basket, especially since everything was hand delivered to me in a plastic grocery bag.)

I was…overjoyed with the variety of goodies and trinkets that I found after rummaging through the basket - grocery bag. Whatever. Anyways, thank you, first and foremost, for the 7/8 of a pound of jellybeans. My teeth are screaming with high-pitched cries of joy that you bought me the tasty kind instead of the Bernie Botts flavors. I was afraid I was going to have to ground all the snot and vomit-flavored pieces into your morning bowl of Golden Grahams as a reminder for next year.

Also, thank you for the foot-long bubble wand with the festive bunny-shaped handle. While right now might not be the best time to do it, I plan on eventually sprinting through the dormitory hallways singing “Peter Cottontail” and leaving bubbly gifts for the other hall residents. I also appreciated the warning on the back of the package that reads: “Bubble solution not intended for human consumption.” I was about to down a shot glass full of this stuff. Phew, that was a close one.

Along with that, thank you for the miniature-sized chocolate bunny you gave me. You did a fine job remembering that I detest any solid milk chocolate animal larger than my hand, considering it took me from April until August 1st to finish the sport utility vehicle sized hare you bestowed upon me last year. My thighs also wish to thank you as well.

Remember, mother dearest, that I love you; however I wish to register some complaints about the remainder of my ghetto-fabulous Easter basket/grocery bag.

Firstly, while the candy jewelry may have sounded like a good idea at the time, there is a reason as to why the package clearly says in big, yellow letters: “Ages 5+”. Five, mother. I don’t suppose you stopped to think about what it would be like wearing these as a nineteen year-old girl, but let me try and illustrate the feeling to you: the choker works as a fairly loose bracelet, and the bracelets…well, they didn’t fit, either. I made the mistake of snapping one on my index finger, and immediately began to gnaw it off in desperation as the elastic band stopped all blood flow. While it’s not your fault that my finger is pulsating and has a nice circle-shaped indent below the knuckle, I would advise you to give these to a better-suited age group.

To add onto the previous complaint, I was unsure if you knew this, but I always get the sensation my molars are biting into rocks every time I try to eat those sorts of candies. It’s a tad bit ill-suited for me at the moment, considering any type of loud noise makes me want to windmill kick the nearest person in the teeth. I plan on handing these out to unsuspecting toddlers on my way to class tomorrow, hopefully breaking the sociological barrier of children not taking candy from strangers. This is different, little Timmy. I’m not out to kidnap you and sell you to a Middle Eastern human trafficking group. Trust me, it’s safe to take these tiny candies, and you’ll be doing a favor for me if you do.

This isn’t so much of an objection as much as it is just utter confusion: I seem to have received two separate decks of cards, one of which is titled “Old Maid”; and the other, simply, “Fish”. I have heard of the former game, but it may take me a few moments to instruct myself how to play. The latter, I suppose, is a generic version of “Go Fish”, but without the word “go”, I’m afraid saying the new title would be anticlimactic during game play. “Do you have any sevens?” “Fish.” “I’m sorry, I’m confused.” “I was three cents short of buying the real card game, so you’ll just have to settle with this version until daddy gets paid next week, sweetheart. Until then, fish.”

By the way, are you trying to hint at something by giving me the “Old Maid” card game? While I’m aware you’re happily accustomed to your newly-appointed grandmother role and you’re itching for more, I’d like to remind you that I’m nineteen, mother. I still have time to get married and read “Time” magazine alone in bed while my husband drinks his sorrows away at the local pub. Just be patient - I’ll pop one out for you in six to eight years from now. You can wait.

Another item I wish to address is the yellow “Peeps” brand sunglasses with bunny ears attached to the front. While you probably imagined they would look adorable on me, I can safely assure you that they don’t. No matter how hard I try, every facial expression I have while wearing these resembles Jon Heder’s in “Napoleon Dynamite”. However, you are my mother, and I love you, so I shall wear these to class and accept my fate as random angered pedestrians curbstomp me for wearing them. I can’t honestly blame them for doing it.

Last but not least, this thing.

The only way I could figure out what purpose it serves was to read the cardboard piece it was attached to, which appears to be purchased from the same store as the card games and candy jewelry. (Note to self: destroy this grotesque and hellish dollar store.) Anyways, the back of the attachment served me well in informing me what it’s supposed to be: a “Punch Ball Critter”. Neat.

Well, okay, it would be, if only it looked as adorable as its instructional counterpart. The actual, however, looks like this.

At this time, I would personally like to thank you for adding a deformed Kirby-like animal to my roster of nightmare monsters. I don’t know what type of Easter-demon possessed you into thinking this latex ball of horror would be an endearing addition to my Easter grocery bag, but whatever it was I hope it’s gone now, because that thing is probably dangerous.

In short, I’d like to request that next year, my Easter basket should simply contain the traditional chocolate bunny, and another group of seriously awesome dinosaur eggs filled with the assortment of different candies and gratuitous amounts of joy. I am now off to finish nursing my hangover, and gnaw on chocolate bunny ears.

Most lovingly,
Your daughter.