Dear whore from the magazine who convinced me that I should make “EASySTER” chocolate bowls using balloons and melted chocolate.

I can’t seem to find the picture of you on your hands and knees cleaning up the post apocalyptic chocolate explosions that have put me into holiday PTSD. My kitchen looks like an F’ing Easter Pollock show.

I just wanted you to know that when you’re at Cross Fit, I’m sleeping with your husband.

Happy Easter