Dear Susannah, if projectile puking were an Olympic sport you would have won a medal Sunday morning in the car. That was truly hideous. Dear Madeline, how would you like a little break from our (recently) stressful reading sessions? Yes? I agree. Dear self, stop with the weird, freaky dreams about people you haven’t seen in a billion years, already. It’s freaking me out. Dear South Beach, you’re actually working. Please don’t stop.