Dear Martin,

If all goes according to plan, you should receive a package 5 days from May 26, which means it will arrive on your Tuesday, June 1st--just in time for your birthday.  (Or the day before?)

So remember to check your mail. 

Love,
Chantal

Dear Martin,

Today I scrubbed the entire bathtub--ok, well at least the edges and all visible signs of rust and mold--for about half an hour while taking a shower.

With a toothbrush. (I didn't have a sponge.)  

In these past couple of days I have also restrained from opening my giant bottle of Orangina, so that we can have something bubbly to drink while we watch Despicable Me when you stay over on Thursday night with your sister.  Thus, I've been reduced to drinking R's Fanta during my midnight cravings, which turns the color of my tongue an unnaturally bright orange.  Yuck. 

The things I do for you. 
 
Love,
Chantal

P.S.
I have stolen E's shoe for sabotaging my Hot Pocket and for purposely locking me out while I was taking out the garbage--he may not reserve a spot in guest parking for you now because of this.

 P.P.S
I regret nothing.  But I have given them back after careful consideration.

Dear Martin,

All that remain of the autumn colors once seen clinging on the branches of the many trees surrounding campus can now only be found on the heads of my Caucasian classmates; though, the spectrum of hair colors are somewhat  of a dull comparison to the brilliant, ephemeral shades of nature that existed before. 

When I came out today and found the grass frosted over, each blade coated with a delicate layer of ice, I couldn't help but laugh.  It still strikes me funny as to how the sun can be out, yet I can see my breath hang in the air.

You never quite realize how far your breath travels until it's visible in cold weather.  It puts things in perspective when you're interacting with other people--when you breathe out, I'm breathing you in, vice versa; there's a peculiar sense of intimacy formed in making this rather morbid connection.  It makes me a little more understanding when someone takes a step back upon discovering that you're sick. 

E still walks around in shorts, which means the weather's actually "not that bad yet."  I've been lead to believe that some time in the near future, the rain is going to freeze into a shower of needle-sharp crystals that will strike me dead one morning while I wait for the bus--apparently the cold doesn't peak until mid January to the end of February.

Curse this godforsaken school. 

So while I was contemplating my wardrobe in preparation for the hard times ahead, I was almost run over by not one, but two bikes at the round-a-bout.  Yes, like you've always said, I need to pay more attention to my immediate surroundings. 

Love,
Chantal

Dear Martin,

By the time you read this, it will be too late to reprimand me.

Yesterday I almost burned down the house--the fire alarm actually went off.  Luckily, R happened to come home in time to save the day, blowing out my candle before anything actually caught on fire.  I came into the room to find a part of my desk shelf scorched black and the face of my alarm clock melted off.  (Note to self:  Remember, just because an object doesn't physically touch a flame doesn't mean it won't burn.  You learned this in chemistry.)  Now our room smells like a bonfire. 

As usual, we had a good laugh over it--we always do when bad things happen.  But I guess that's probably not a good habit; it kind of implies that we don't understand the gravity of the situation.    

Anyways, the important thing is, I learned not to leave a candle unattended.  Ever.  Especially if there's something above it. 

Love,
Chantal

Dear Martin,

I'm trying to figure out how the city can be frozen over while the sun still shines ever so brightly against an impossibly clear blue sky.  Davis weather is bipolar.  If the cold doesn't kill me, the sheer weight of what I'm wearing will.  Lately I've taken to wrapping myself in six layers of clothing.  When I walk to class, I have to cradle my face in my hands to keep it from freezing into a permanent expression of misery.

I'm beginning to look like a depressed chunky kid.

I need you here to hold my hand--well actually, all of me in general.

Love,
Chantal