Dear bobby pins,
You hide under my journal and books. I can only see a fraction of you when you hide like that. It's not my fault that your spindly ends look like spider legs. And you expect me to react calmly? My heart skips a beat until my brain can realize that you are inanimate. Please don't take it personally but this hiding game has got to stop. I can't handle any more stress. It's not you, it's me. Please stop congregating on the floor. The rest of your friends live in the silver box in the bathroom. Please direct yourselves accordingly.
Love,
Heather
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