Dear Lady Who Came Into My Shop And Asked Me To Zip Up Your Dress,
Dear Cockroach I Killed This Morning,
I know that you can't read this because a) you're a cockroach and b) you're dead but I though a short note would be a convenient medium for me to tell my readers that I killed you by dropping a bag of money on you. This amused me greatly and I feel it could serve as some kind of metaphor in a piece of highbrow, postmodern fiction. If I ever get around to writing such a work you can be assured that you will live in posterity among the great bugs of literature, like the one in Kafka's Metamorphosis.
Dear Bertoni Baristas,
I've got you sussed: I have managed to decode the little squiggles you write on the coffee cups so I know they say the colour of whatever the person ordering is wearing. This makes it look like you remember them as indiviuals when their coffee is ready when actually you are just looking at their tops. As well as this, it means you can look at all the ladies' boobs.
I still haven't figured out how you manage to convince so many people that sitting on upturned milk crates is a cool and comfortable alternative to actual chairs. But you've managed it somehow so snaps to you.
P.S. when you say "ciao" and "bella" it doesn't make me believe you are Italian. Nice try though.