Brittany isn’t expecting any packages so it’s a nice surprise, even if it is for Lord Tubbington. She’s a little disappointed that Santana printed out the address labels; she misses seeing Santana’s leftie scrawl. The box is a good size, but light. Brittany worries briefly that Tubbington has convinced Santana to send him rolling papers.
“Mail call, Lord Tubbington! You got a package from Santana! I’m gonna open it!”
There’s a note on top in glorious leftie scrawl.
Today on a very special episode of Fondue For 2: Hoarders Edition, Santana Lopez will share every drawing, note, memo, letter, card, and one particularly awesome 7/11 receipt she has ever been given by the Brittany S. Pierce…
OK, so I ran into Britt’s mom at the store when I was stocking up on Ohio-priced toiletries (between me and Lady Hummel’s luggage we might just fit everything Berry demanded) and she told me how the tweed jacket dudes at MIT wanted everything Britt-Britt had ever written down for their TA’s to go through. She asked me if I thought I might still have anything (uh, duh, mama Pierce. I mean, she’s seen my car). So I figured I’d take this opportunity to send you a cardboard box.
Tell Britt-Britt they’re in chronological order, and to tell those egg heads I totes expect them back in the same condition. They spill coffee on my Brittany unicorn notes I break their knees.
Brittany dives into the papers in Lord Tubbington’s new cardboard box. She doesn’t even remember most of the early drawings she made for her bestie. Lots of them do have numbers on them; Brittany always liked numbers better than letters. Letters are always too similar and confusing; Arabic numbers just make sense. Crayons really are the superior writing implement, and Santana has just given her an entire childhood of proof. Brittany carefully removes everything and sits the box on the floor. When she finally tears herself away from the flood of Santana memories every unicorn brings to mind and returns to Santana’s leftie scrawl, Lord Tubbington is asleep in his new box.
Once Britt-Britt has a chance to settle into her MIT routine we’ll get back to hardcore skyping and you can tell me if the box meets your high cat standards. Oh, and if you ever need a break from all the genius Brittany-ness you can always crash here. Fair warning: my roommates are both completely insane. We could pull some awesome pranks on them, though.
Take care of Britt-Britt for me, OK? Genius cannot live on hot cheese alone, and I needz mah bestie to be available for panicked choreography phone calls at all hours, aight? So real food, and good sleep, and no pity smooches for the ugly geniuses (she’ll, like, catch something). I know you got this, Tubbs. Enjoy the box.
Brittany isn’t crying; being a genius all the time now just makes her brain sweat more than it used to, and it leaks out her eyes.
Later that week, in New York…
"Santana, who the hell is sending you cans of tuna fish in bubble envelopes?"
"Shut up and enjoy the free lunch, Lady Hummel," Santana says, goofy smile firmly in place.