Dear Brendan Newman:

It comes as no personal surprise that you find yourself in love with me; my magnetism is pretty hard to resist.

But you seem to be under the impression that your feelings are being reciprocated. All the attention (negative though it is) I've indirectly paid you lately is I'm sure the most you've received in a long while. Even from that girlfriend of yours. If she does indeed exist.

Again, another reason I'm sure you're are confused is centered on what happened last night. Just to clarify: I made out with you for my own amusement as well as the amusement of everyone else on this trip. What better way to cap off the Brendan Debauchery Project than to toy with your emotions? (Pictures to come)

You see, Brendan, there is one major barrier that prevents our union: I have standards. There's really nothing more to say.

Is this letter a bit harsh? Mmm, I think not. Especially since you called me easy. I won't repeat the rest of what Jessie and Bobby reported to me last night on this blog. My family is reading, you sicko. (Note: And for future reference, any rude statements you make about me to other members of the trip are going to come back to me, probably within minutes. And that's probably the case for every other trip considering the fact that people tend to have greater loyalties to those they biked across the country with, not some rand-o admin who shows up on a bus.)

Furthermore, I still have beef with you over all the hardships I had to endure due to your administrative shortcomings. Lunch the first day. Insufficient tents. Van issues which could have been prevented thanks to a check-up before the trip. And let's not forget the fact that you crashed the last week of this trip for no other reason (at least that I can tell, because you never really made it known why you were here) than to relive your Bike and Build glory days. And it seems your definition of "relive" constitutes being a wet blanket, mooching off our food, and drinking.

And lastly, there's money on the table here. Dan, before your arrival: "$20 to the first person who makes Brendan cry." I'm out of cash, son. And despite all the action I gave you last night, none of my drinks wound up on your tab. You cheapskate.

Thanks for the laughs, though. Even if they were at your expense.

Forever not yours,
Kathy