Dear Mr. The Season of Spring,
Just what exactly is your beef with me? You've been plaguing me since I was eight years old, and I have no clue what I did to deserve this sort of treatment.
You went relatively easy on me as a kid, cursing me only mildly with an allergy to pollen. Sure, my body throws the equivalent of a temper tantrum every time I walk near a blooming flower or a tree, but the lovely people at Target are always happy to sell me as much Benadryl and Claritin as I can carry.
But now, Mr. Spring, you've crossed the line too many times. This is the fourth year you've presented me with a Hell Week, and I have yet to find a medication to take away the pain. Even after inhaling four pounds of chocolate in the past four days—trust me, I tallied it all up—and watching The Lord of the Rings every night for a week, I'm still using up more tissues than will fit in my trash can.
In summary, I'm tired of being heartbroken and sad every Spring when the rest of the world is falling in love. Please, try to find it in your heart to forgive me for whatever wretched crime I committed against your lovely season back in my childhood. I'm running out of excuses for the mascara trails under my eyes.