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Dearest Father,
It is with utter chagrin and sorrow that I must report back such tragic news. I write this letter to you during Winter Quarter of my third (3rd!) year of university and I have yet to find a suitable husband. My kerosene lamp illuminates the tears that run down my gaunt, aging cheeks. I am no longer the care-free FT-dwelling freshman I once was! I no longer possess the elixir of life (Portola Mountain Dew) to keep the wrinkles and gray hair at bay. My Brandy Melville crop tops do not fit the same way and plastic handles of Vitali just don’t taste as good as they used to. I cannot hide it any longer, Father: I am no longer wife material!
Oh, Father, I have done all that I can think of to find a husband here at UC Santa Barbara! I stand in the middle of the Arbor during the pre-class rush dropping books and papers in the presence of men, hoping that at least one will stop to help me gather my belongings. I ride my bike in circles around the bike path, purposely falling over in the hopes that a nice gentleman will assist me.
I am inconsolable about my loss of wife material status. What is the point of going to a prestigious four-year university if not to get my Mrs. degree? What say you about this situation? I think the next logical step would be raising my dowry… four goats may not be enough now that I am an old maid… it may be time to throw in a cow. I eagerly await your reply, as I am not getting any younger. Please send your fastest carrier pigeon with your response.
Mournfully,
Your Unmarried Daughter
Hannah Jackson welcomes spinsterhood and can be found third-wheeling her couple friends like she gets paid to do it.
