Dear guy on the M79 bus that’s been reading the same John Grisham novel since June,
I know you’re pretending to read that book and are really just staring at my breasts. I’m not stupid. I know it’s not by chance that you always end up sitting across from me or standing beside me. I saw the look of disappointment on your face that first Fall day, when they were hidden underneath a warm jacket. I’m on to you, and this summer I’m riding that bus with three under-wires and two sports bras. NO MORE FREE SHOW SICKO!
Dear piece of just been chewed, pink bubble gum that was stuck to my subway seat when I was on my way to an audition in my new wool pants,
This isn’t the end whore. Watch your back.
Lots of Love,
To the lady who was waiting in line behind me at the DuaneReade Pharmacy,
Remember that foul smell, and how I made eye contact with you and then nodded towards the man ahead of me. I was the culprit. I’m so sorry. In my defense, I had food poisoning and was violently ill for the next 48 hours. Again, so sorry.
All the best to you and yours,
Dear guy I fell for last year at Barnes n’ Noble who strung me along for 5 months and then told me he wasn’t ready to date anyone for “at least another 3 years” while he, “figured shit out,”
I heard you’ve met this gorgeous, amazing girl and you’re head over heels in love with her. I think that’s great. Aren’t you so glad you weren’t tied down to me when you met her? Way to trust your instincts dude. I hope that she gives you some non-fatal, excruciating STD and that every time you itch yourself in pain down there you think of me, that cute, disease-free girl that got away.
Dear Aveda Student who cut my hair for free last month,
Maybe you should go back to school. Perhaps study computer science, or massage therapy, or maybe culinary school would be fun.
Dear music that will end up on a “Hits of 2005” compilation CD,
I think I hate you already, and I know that the only time I will be able to listen to you without feeling that the world is coming to an end is when I’m working out. So, please get better. And no more hit songs based on terrorist attacks or natural disasters. Tell your artists to just send money: send money to the cause, you don’t need to write a song about a Tsunami.
Thank you so much,
Dear overpriced Manhattan restaurant that charges $9.50 for a small side of mashed potatoes,
You suck. They weren’t even that good. Nine dollar and fifty cent-mashed potatoes should be AMAZING. You think you’re so trendy with your anorexic looking, icy wait staff strutting around in their little black dresses carrying your 5-foot long a la carte menu with only 4 entrees. Hah! You’re lucky I was on a date and didn’t have to pay for anything.
You’re all going to hell.
The brunette that still doesn’t feel guilty about tripping that waitress after she was advised that “steak is so not, like, a weight watching food.”
Dear new lace bra I just purchased at the Victoria Secret’s semi-annual sale that ripped apart when I raised my arm to hail a taxicab last Friday night,
I hate you, you delicate little girly piece of overpriced crap. Do you know how good we looked together? Do you? DO YOU?! Do you know what a great deal I got on you? 40% off! Who is going to see us together now? NOBODY, you stupid weak little bitch.
I miss you.
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