Mr. Postman

I’m a big believer in writing letters, as anyone who’s had to deal with the reality of finding glitter in the grout of kitchen tiles months after having opened an envelope from me will tell you.
Taking aside the fifteen minutes or so that it takes to compose a letter– be it to catch up with a friend, inform a celebrity of your adoration, declare your love, or demand a ransom– is really soothing. It helps you to collect your thoughts, or at least get them all down. Plus, after about a week, your letters’ recipients have a concrete reminder that they’re on your mind, whatever that entails.
Sometimes, though, I find that I can’t express myself to everyone postally. Usually because the intended recipient is an inanimate object or a concept. So, here are some letters I’ve wanted to send lately, but haven’t been able to find the necessary addresses for in the phonebook.

Dear Makers-of-My-Backpack,
Your product and I have a long history together. I commend you on making an item so well that it has been able to withstand my ravages and carelessness for so many years. Truly, it is a testament to your quality. But what gives? It is impossible for me to wear the damn thing without a coat on because it is determined to lift the back of my skirt. I have given the world a pretty sweet view several times thanks to its mischief.
Early morning shoppers, you’re welcome.
Folks on the second floor of the library, I hope you enjoyed your gander.
Rose Garden frequenters, yes, those are lilacs adorning my tushy.
I am going to have to sacrifice the comfort of knowing all of my stuff will fit in my bag for the sake of my pride. And that hurts.

Dear Facebook,
We had our good times, baby. You’ve documented my growth and shame for the better part of five years. If we were actually in a relationship, we’d be dodging sly remarks from our mutual friends about wedding bells by now. But we are not. It’s not you, it’s me. I don’t have the willpower to restrain myself from creeping on other people’s vacation albums, or from posting YouTube videos all over the place. And I don’t really use you properly, to your full potential. It’s unfair to you.
Oh, and I hate you. I forgot to mention that. I want my stuff back, you little snot.

Dear Sexy-Musician-Man-of-My-Dreams,
Information about your relationship status–do you see why I really had to get off Facebook?–has come to my attention. It makes my carnal interests in you slightly less Hell-worthy. This brings me great joy. Get at me, son.

Dear New Bra,
There has been something I’ve been meaning to get off my chest, and, baby, it’s not you. You are very pretty, and just so supportive of everything I do. I feel blessed to have you in my life. We’re going places, you and me.

Dear Birds of Dublin,
This is getting out of hand.
I understand that we are near the sea, so there will, at times, be seagulls. I also understand that you avian types enjoy hanging out near the upper regions of building. But you seagulls are getting bold. Six in the morning is not a polite hour to discuss the most recent episode of Dr. Who, or whatever your excessive squawking has been all about lately. Also, stop shitting on our laundry. I’ve good aim with a glass bottle, you feathered fiends.
And, pigeons, get a room. Spring has sprung, love is in your loins– I get it. When I was enjoying my lunch-study in the park, however, and I was getting all excited about sharing the edges of my sandwich with you, you just mounted as I was forming pigeon-friendly crumbs. In the time it took one of you to coo, “Well, all right then,” I became the most tertiary of third wheels. I felt like I was out with friends, all of us having a great night, cradled in the perfect state of inebriation. Then, in order to keep the good feeling going, I decided to buy the next round, only to look up from my wallet to see my drunken comrades thrust up against a wall/each other’s faces.
Not speaking from experience or admitting to just having the three drinks myself, but you know what I mean.
Also, you should also stop hanging out with the seagulls. You get no crumbs from me while you’re still defiling my clothes.

Dear Student Loan,
You scare the beejeebus out of me. Ever since I signed away my soul to you, I’ve been waiting for a loan shark with elbow patches on his tweed to jump out from around corners, beating me with a Milton collection in one hand and the bright future I’ll never have in the other. Be kind.

Dear Library Counter Clerk,
You really made my day. I racked up those fees because of my own failure to get books back in on time and my subsequent pouting. But you, sir, are a shining star. When you cut my fee by two-thirds and ordered me to get an ice cream during my study-break, I had half a mind to ask you to go steady. Really, you’re lovely.

Follower Love-Fest #19: Carrie and Mike Groff
I’m sorry to say that, of all of my followers, I know very little about the lovebirds who co-run Living A Healthy Beach Life. I think that it’s lovely that they act as a single blogging unit, clearly the Twenty-First Century version of a joint bank account. What I do know is that they are an adorable couple who seem really keen on each other and keeping things positive. Oh, and Carrie’s hair is divine.

Play me out, fellas.


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