We'll be blunt: go fuck yourself. As far as things we despise, you are right up there with the hipsters, the holocaust, and the person who N-lips the blunt.
You force us to make excruciating decisions daily which no person should ever have to make. Decisions such as choosing to actually eat lunch instead of your usual afternoon #54 iced coffee or concoting a debatably disgusting (yet delicious at the time) late night snack because a commercial for any type of food came on during South Park. As Stoner Betches, we often feel like we live a double life. On the one hand we are obligated to #5 diet and work out so we can comfortably rock a crop top at a music festival at a moment's notice. On the other hand, we just want to go to fucking Taco Bell but we can't because we're on an all carb diet. God, Munchies you are so STUPID!
Don't think I haven't noticed your games, as your severity changes depending on my pre-high state of mind. Like if it’s 10am on a Blackout Wednesday morning, I’ll chase my j with a 20 mg adderall and then I will look you in the fucking eye and I will laugh, for you will not get to me today, Munchies. But on the contrary, on a hungover Sunday consisting of a 12 hour Kardashian marathon, I anticipate your arrival before the first bong is even ripped, and I give myself wholly to thee.
Of course, M, there are those among us who claim you do not affect them. The truth is that they have just trained their high mind to resist you in the same way that John Travolta learned to resist the penis: barely.
The worst part is that, unlike the rest of our problems which we simply smoke away, you are the RESULT of smoking, and frankly that’s fucked up. So, to bring us back to the thesis of this letter, Munchies you suck and we wish your existence were as easy to smoke out of our consciousness as apartheid or like our homework. I’d like to say goodbye forever, but I know I’ll be seeing you this evening at dinner so, until then, a big fuck you.