Dear Distant Relative Who Doesn't Like Me But Writes In The Hope You Will Be In My Will Because I Don't Have Any Kids:
Thank you for your recent novel detailing every second of your lives for the last year. I've recycled the paper in the coops as usual, which saves on shavings, thereby adding a few more pennies to my estate.
Sorry to inform you that my health continues to be perfect.
No, you can't come to visit and scope out the property you mistakenly think you'll be getting.
Thanks again for the knee-high rainbow striped socks with toes, I'm sure I'll find a use for them, despite the fact my feet were amputated years ago. I will probably just dump those in the box in the attic that contains all the other Dollar Store- thoughtless-crappy gifts you have sent in the past.
It's always a joy to see pictures of your snot-nosed screaming brats turning into the selfish, lazy, horrors just-taking-up-space-on-a planet-already strained-for-resources they've become.
Although it's great to hear you've managed to keep an air fern alive for two months, I really don't think that now makes us "kindred spirits" when it comes to gardening or that your surviving turtle gives us "so much to talk about concerning farm life".
I'm afraid I am unable to send the bail money you require to spring your husband for his 86th "drunk & disorderly" charge.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas and I look forward to the next 364 days of not having to pay the postage for your next facinating installment.
Best Regards,
Aunt S.