Dear the Sun,

Listen, I know we’ve never really gotten along. I’ve never understood why you revile me more than anyone, save the albinos that are nearly kin to me. But whatever the source of your rage, the less of you that I have in my life, the better. And believe me, I do everything I possibly can to stay out of your way. But like the strained relationship of an abusive relative, we still have to see each other now and then. Unfortunately I can’t completely escape your vitriolic temper.

Bombarding all you survey with death-rays is not the healthiest way to release aggression. Perhaps you could sit down with a book? Or watch something funny to get your mind off the stress of never getting a day off? I recommend “Better Off Ted,” “Futurama,” or “Game of Thrones.” (That last one is especially your sort of humor. Everyone suffers and dies relentlessly. Just the way you like it, you burning bitchball.)

I can begrudgingly understand why those filthy green plants like you. But I am confounded as to why so many humans seem to adore you, despite your daily hydrogen-drunk rampages leaving everyone spanked red and cancered.

But this time you’ve overstepped. You’ve always been a huge, cruel, blistering ass-sore. This is going too far, even for you.

I’d give you the benefit of the doubt that you just wanted a closer look at the agonized-over details I put into this. But let’s be real. You couldn’t see it. It was covered, and in a box, and in the shade. So, like the third-degree nut-twist you are, you just decided to make it a million degrees in the shade for the one day it wasn’t completely hidden from you. Hot enough that plastic melted, and oil paint burned. Are you really so threatened that something I made might shine that you had to ruin it?



I’m looking forward to the day that, in my robot body, enjoying a cocktail on my star-yacht, I can watch the supernova you die in, you searing yellow bastard.



Sincerely loathing,

Steve “Sunshunner” Argyle