dear body.

I'm sorry about the nail-biting. And the lip-biting. And the cheek-biting.

Thank you for throwing tantrums after I give you fast food.  You always tell me what's right and what isn't; I'm not always the best listener, but I'm trying.

You're a champ, you know that?  Those weeks with consistent four-hours-of-sleep nights (um. every week)...you come out just fine. Not a sniffle or a whine, and I could just kiss you for it.

Remember when the boy I was kissing on got mono? And we were all, well, we're probably sunk already so....why stop now? So I made the plainly rational decision and continued onward kissing and I magically didn't get mono?  It was like, seriously. the. coolest. of you to do that.

Oh, yeah. And remember when I stayed up for 42 hours and I still made you go to weight training and spin class and you were like, we got this, trick. And I was like, is there nothing you can't do?

Your tolerance for caffeine is astounding, boundless, and greatly appreciated. I promise to stop pounding it when I'm not in 18 credits/3 councils and trying to date/fulfill my calling and be a good family member/friend/roommate/human being. I promise I'll get better. Please be patient?

Thanks for the bum. I used to mentally assault you because it seems that no matter how much I slim down, my butt.....doesn't.  Finding pants that fit short, petite legs and a JLo booty is an Olympic sport, I tell ya, Jose.  But then the right kind of guy came along and declared it to be a really nice ass.....et. Maybe my best, even. And I realized he was kind of right.

I'm sorry for the abuse. "I'm sorry I ruined your lives, and crammed eleven cookies into the VCR." Except like, you're the VCR.  You're so wonderful and strong and healthy.  I know how important it is to take care of you, and I won't ever have three doughnuts for dinner ever again. Probably. I don't even like doughnuts.

Less dessert, more kale, I vow! This week I'm going meatless; next week, S U G A R. Wish me luck.