We all do things we aren't proud of, but not all of us have the integrity to apologize. Kassia cleanses her soul and makes amends to those she wronged this week.
To the Cashier at my Local Tasti DeLite
I'm sorry you didn't know I had a twin sister and that on occasion we buy frozen yogurt for each other and that we happened to come in on the same day. I have to hand it to you, though. You handled it beautifully. You let me get through my whole order of "two medium vanilla with mixed chips on top, to go" and you made said order without blinking an eye. It was only as you were ringing me up that you casually said, "You came in here before, right?" That was such a cool way of trying to tell me that you thought I maybe had a problem because I was eating four fro-yo treats in a day. You are going to be a great Dad. If and when you realize your daughter is doing the equivalent of four fro-yo treats a day's worth of drinking, smoking or doing boys, you're going to bring it up at the right time in a calm manner, just like you did with me. And you should be proud of that. Also, just so we're clear, if I do ever come in and get four frozen yogurts in one day, I don't want to talk about it.
To my Mother
I'm so sorry I went out with my friends while I was visiting you in DC. I didn't realize was that despite my age as a full-fledged adult, you were still going to freak the fuck out about me being out in a city after dark. I should have known when you looked up the address of the bar in your 1991 street map of DC and declared it a "bad area" that this was going to be stressful for both of us. But I didn't. Nor did I realize it when I checked my phone when I got to the bar and saw you'd texted me four times asking if I got to the bar okay. I think it was the 1:30 a.m. call that I had to answer at the bar in front of EVERYONE
in which you asked me to please come home soon because you were waiting up that really cued me into the fact that this was a bad idea. So, I'm sorry. Also, it's 3 a.m. and I'm writing this from a bar that's in a part of town that was like terrible in the '70s.
To my Phone
I'm sorry I dropped you onto the tracks of the subway. That was
a bad day for both of us. I just want you to know I felt awful about the whole thing. Even as I was telling the station manager what happened (while you were lying in rat feces and wet litter), I kept having the urge to Tweet about losing you or to text my friends about what an a-hole I am for dropping you. But I couldn't do any of that without you. Don't you see, phone? I lost you and you were the only one I wanted to tell about it. So call up Alanis Morissette because isn't THAT
ironic? What I'm trying to say is I'm sorry for the way I tossed you around, treated you like this thing that could be left on a track. Call up Soul Asylum because this runaway train IS coming back. And it'll keep coming back. Because I love you. Oh my god it feels so good to say that! I love you, phone! Also I don't think we have the numbers for either Alanis Morissette or Soul Asylum stored in my contacts.
To the Worker at Home Depot
I'm sorry that when I asked if you had fishing line, you asked me what I needed it for, and I admitted in a disappointed-in-myself voice, "It's for a craft project." First of all, can't a girl buy a little fishing line in New York City without the third degree? Maybe I'm one of those guys fishing in the Hudson. You don't know. You don't know my life. Maybe I like Hudson fish? Fine. I don't eat Hudson fish and maybe all signs DID
point to craft project. Maybe it was my lost-child stare that said, "I don't come here a lot." Perhaps the contents of my cart (one cardboard box, two wooden dowels and a can of spray paint) didn't add up to "home improvement project." So what. I resent being pigeonholed. I resent being "read" mister, okay? And also thankyousomuch
you pointed me in exactly the right direction and my craft project came out so perfect, the girls at the coffee klatch just DIED
To the Girl on the Train I Kept Trying to Smell
Well, that sounds bad. I'm sorry. But the thing is this. I am in the market for a new perfume. I thought you had on a perfume that I liked. It turns out you didn't. The scent I liked belonged to the man sitting in front of you. I'll deal with my issues of wanting to wear a men's cologne at another time and place. This is about the fact that I was wafting you for the entire trip from New York to Washington, DC. Wafting is an oft-unnoticed activity, but intimate nonetheless, and I feel the need to tell you that I did it. I wafted you, girl. I wafted you good. I was ultimately disappointed in the results, but hey. We gave it a go. We tried. Hope you had a nice trip. Me? Well. I'm still looking for my perfume partner in the sun. Smell you around?