So, for the past few months, I've been keeping a list of letters I'd like to release to the world. If I could boil this stuff down to under 140 characters, I might just start using my Twitter account to get it off my chest. Well, start using it for more than just stalking Chris D'elia and 27 of my favorite bloggers, that is.
An Open Letter to Those Who Comment on My Meal Choices:
I realize that when I walk in with a mason jar filled with brown-ish/green-ish sludge, your interest (and possibly gag reflex) is piqued. And mostly I don't mind answering your questions--usually I'm happy to ramble on at length about my newest obsession. But please have some manners. If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it. Because in the future, if you do, I may just give you the real run down: In addition to a dozen other health benefits I found by eliminating 432 foods from my diet, I eat what makes my bowels less angry. That means that anyone with functioning olfactory capabilities gets to enjoy clean, neutral smelling air when blessed with my presence, and I get to have less painful/impossible potty-time. It really is a win, win, you see. It is in your best interest. So shut up, or pass the cheese and beware. P.S. The brown-ish/green-ish sludge is the most delicious superfood smoothie you could ever imagine and if you're nice to me I might share.
In health and happily shared spaces,
Bobbi Marie
An Open Letter to the People in My Life Who Are Mourning Their Favorite Sporting Team's Loss and/or Are Frustrated Over A Strike:
There, there now. I'm so sorry you're sad/frustrated. This must be really hard for you and-- Oh, who am I kidding? I quickly show signs of Asperger's Syndrome when confronted with this. I don't know what to say, or how to look you in the eye, and I'd do anything to conjure up some empathy so that I might know how to cheer you up/pacify your angry outburst/make the crying stop. I basically have no idea whatsoever why this might be so important to ANYONE, and I do not understand how in the world the implications of someone missing a pitch can make you turn from Mister Rogers to Abby-the-4-year-old-NPR-fan in under 5 seconds. I just want my friend back so we can talk about things I understand. But, yeah, I hope you feel better soon...?
There, there now. I'm so sorry you're sad/frustrated. This must be really hard for you and-- Oh, who am I kidding? I quickly show signs of Asperger's Syndrome when confronted with this. I don't know what to say, or how to look you in the eye, and I'd do anything to conjure up some empathy so that I might know how to cheer you up/pacify your angry outburst/make the crying stop. I basically have no idea whatsoever why this might be so important to ANYONE, and I do not understand how in the world the implications of someone missing a pitch can make you turn from Mister Rogers to Abby-the-4-year-old-NPR-fan in under 5 seconds. I just want my friend back so we can talk about things I understand. But, yeah, I hope you feel better soon...?
Fondly,
An Open Letter to the Bully Spin Instructor who Singled Me Out in Front of the Whole Flipping Class in 2010 and Made Me Do Jumps Even Though I Explicitly Said My Knee was Injured:
Thanks for cranking up the resistance... on my willingness to brave group exercise, you Nazi you. You're mean and I get the impression by the size of your biceps that you might feel the need to prove something to the world. If you're looking to have impact that is in line with your skill set, might I suggest applying to be a coach for the WWE? Basically, I'm still traumatized by our encounter almost three years later, and I think you might be a little too intense for the YMCA.
Signed,
Still seething
An Open Letter to My Right Quadricep:
Okay, look, I'm sorry that the Spin Instructor was mean to you when you were at your most feeble. And I'm sorry that the stubborn discs in my back are pinching off your nerve/life-source. But can you find a way to muster up some freaking enthusiasm? After all, the rest of my body has had just as much time on the bench as you. Show some commitment. Learn to get along with your neighbors. Give my right knee some support! Get in the game!
See you on the field,
Coach Bobbi
An Open Letter to the State of Michigan:
Thanks for going blue on this one. I'm really proud of you.
GObama,
A Yooper Democrat for Life
An Open Letter to The Bald Man Who Swore At Me Because He Thought I Cut Him Off At The Light Outside My Office:
Dude, you were in the TURNING LANE. According to Michigan Intersection Signage Law (or something like that), you were supposed to be TURNING after pausing temporarily for through traffic. The right lane, that I was in, is the through-traffic lane. YOU were wrong. Should you have calmed down from your Britney-in-'07-style temper tantrum and found the good sense to want to apologize, I work in that building over there in Suite 207. Bring Skittles.
Peacefully yours,
The innocent brunette in the red Jeep
An Open Letter to the Girl in the Sparkly Dress at the Nursing Gala on Saturday Night at The Landmark in Marquette, MI:
You go, girl. (This post is turning into Missed Connections...)
Cheers,
The jealous girl in the corner on her 4th dirty martini who will never have the chutzpah you had when you put your heels on and walked out the door
An Open Letter to the "Doctors" That Provided My "Care" circa '10-'12:
I'm gonna assume you know what this one would say, and on the off chance that my grandmother might suddenly get an iPad and read this blog, I'm going to leave those expletives unsaid.
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