Love Letters/Hate Mail

Dear Inspiration,

2009-09-24T15:02:00.000-07:00

Here's a little something you helped me write a long time ago. I dedicate it to you.

Love,

Me

Muse

September 30, 1963 was a hot day at Stokes University. Although Jesse's English professor opened the windows, the lack of soft breezes in the humid southern air proved the attempt to be utterly fruitless. Jesse tugged at his collar and winced as a fat droplet of sweat fell from his forehead and onto his homework, smearing the ink on question number three. He reached into his left back pocket, pulled out one of his mother's handkerchiefs and carefully dabbed the flaw away.

Jesse gazed around the classroom at his peers. Many constructed paper fans and cocked their wrists back and forth, trying to cool their miserable faces and necks. Others slept. His eyes landed on Sarah Richards, a girl he courted the month before. He watched as she crossed and uncrossed her long, perfect legs, trying to find comfort in her desk. She caught him looking, shot him a nasty glare and stuck out her tongue. Jesse laughed.

"Mr. Musings, would you care to join us today?" Professor Albright asked.

"Sorry, sir," Jesse apologized sheepishly. "Will you please repeat the question?"

"What do you think would have happened if Romeo and Juliet had never met?"

"They would have been fine," answered Jesse, without hesitation.

"Fine? Please elaborate."

"I mean, of course they would've been fine. They were, what, fourteen? They had their whole lives ahead of them. In fact, I'd even say that it would've been better if they hadn't met. Juliet would have married Prince what's-his-name-"

"Paris."

"Yes, Prince Paris. And Romeo would've eventually gotten over Rosaline and met someone else. They'd both live a long life and probably be perfectly content. It's inevitable."

"Hmph," Professor Albright said. "Makes sense."

"Yes, it does," Jesse said, rather pleased with his answer.

"I disagree," boomed a passionate voice from the back of the classroom.

Jesse turned around and vaguely recognized a student who rarely attended class. She had a mop of curls and dirty bare feet. He had never really paid any attention to her, but now he was intrigued and a bit annoyed. He glanced at Professor Albright, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders.

"Why be merely content for a lifetime when you could be insanely blissful for a little while? In fact, if they'd never met, they'd have been better off dead anyway," said the girl.

"WHAT?!" Jesse scowled, throwing up his hands. "You can't be serious! I mean, COME ON."

"Oh, I'm serious. Dead serious." the girl giggled.

"Do you always laugh at your own jokes?" Jesse asked.

"Okay, class, we're out of time. Turn in your homework and have Act III read by Thursday. There will be a quiz," Professor Albright warned.

The students groaned as they gathered their books and strolled out the door.

"Hey!" Jesse called out to the opinionated stranger. "Do you really think they'd be better off dead?"

She ignored him and kept walking.

"Hey! I know you can hear me."

Her stride did not break.

"Stop!"

The girl obediently stopped in the middle of the hall and pivoted on her heel to face Jesse eye-to-eye, hands on her hips.

"Aren't you hot?" she asked, tilting her head to the side and allowing her eyes to scan the upper half of his body.

"Excuse me?" he asked, shifting his weight uncomfortably from the right to the left.

"You're kind of sweaty."

Jesse looked down at the perspiration that seeped through his crisp white shirt. His face burned with embarrassment.

"Why do you wear white button-up shirts every day?"

"You don't even see me every day. You never come to class either."

"I see you around, and every time I do, you're wearing the same white button-up shirt."

So, she notices me, he thought.

"It's not the same one. I have a few," he retorted.

"You didn't answer my question," she said as she turned to walk away.

"You didn't answer mine," Jesse shot back.

She sighed, shook her head and turned around, a huge grin plastered on her face.

"Come here," she said as she flipped through Shakespeare's tragedy. She took Jesse's hand. "Close your eyes."

"What?"

"Just do it. And listen."

"Okay… And by the way, I think you're weird."

"Hush. Listen. Ahem. 'Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.'"

The girl leaned forward and whispered softly in his ear, "See? Romeo may have liked other girls, but it didn't compare to his love for Juliet. A love like theirs only happens once in a lifetime." She drew back and asked in a normal voice, "Do you want more examples? I have them marked."

"Um, no, that's okay," Jesse shook his head, opened his eyes and nervously took his hand out of hers. He felt strange.

"So, what about you?" the girl asked.

"What about me?"

"Why do you wear white button-up shirts every day?"

"Because they look nice."

She giggled. "You do look nice. Every time I see you, your hair is perfectly in place, just like now."

Jesse smiled. She wants me, he thought.

"But, sometimes I wonder," she said as she raised her hands, "what it would look like," she leaned in close, "if I did this," and vigorously ran her fingers through his sandy blond hair, ruining any perfection that might have been.

"Hey!" Jesse angrily shouted. "Whaddaya do that for?"

She laughed hysterically. "Because you needed it."

"Do you always go around putting your hands on people you don't know?" Jesse asked.

"Well, who are you?"

"What?"

"Who are you? What's your name? Please identify yourself."

"I'm Jesse. Jesse Musings."

"Jesse Musings… Hmmm… I'm Dylan," she said, offering him a solid handshake. "Now, we know each other and I reserve the right to put my hands on you any time I please, especially if it's for your own good."

"Oh, really?" he asked slyly.

"Really. So, Mr. Musings, may I call you Muse?"

"No. No, you may not."

"Okay, Muse. I have to go. I have a lunch date," Dylan said as she headed towards the exit.

"Hey!"

"What now?" Dylan whined, flinging her body around to face him while rolling her big blue eyes.

"It's Jesse, okay? Jesse."

"Okay, Muse. Got it. See you around."

"Are you coming to class on Thursday?" he asked curiously, hoping to hear a yes.

"Maybe," she said, although she already knew she most definitely would.

Dear Christina,

2009-09-15T16:38:00.000-07:00

Your last post WAS terrible! Seriously, you're going to hell.

Love,

Me

Dear Future Child,

2009-09-04T17:03:00.000-07:00

Today, I do not miss you one bit.

Don’t get me wrong — I love you more than I love myself. You’re the light of my future life. But today, my dear, I simply don’t miss you. Today, I’m basking in bachelorettehood. Smothering myself with sweet solitude. Loving life alone.

Today, I fully appreciate the benefits of coming home to a cat instead of you, your siblings, your dad and a to-do list four times as big as the one I barely manage now. I feel so bad saying that, but it’s true! I’m just not ready for you yet. I’m not ready for your father either. I’m not ready to clean up after people, while maintaining a loving heart. AGH! I’m so terrible, I know.

Tonight, I’m going to eat chips and salsa for dinner. Then around eleven, if I'm hungry again, I'm going to make some mac and cheese. From a box. Not the most nutritious meals, but I’m not feeding four, so it’s all good.

Please don’t misunderstand what I’m saying. I’m not saying I don’t want you. Of course I want you. I dream about you often. A little too often, I’m sure. I’m just saying that today is a great day to be childless!

In closing, I’d like to say that mothers are beautiful people. I hope to one day be as beautiful for you.

Until then,

Me

Dear Christina,

2009-07-27T21:03:00.000-07:00

You whine a lot.

Seriously, your last blog entry made me wrinkle my nose and shake my head. I'm a little embarrassed for you.

Maybe you should spend less time whining about not writing and more time actually doing it.

Get over yourself,

Me

Dear Blog,

2009-07-13T20:25:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry I no longer write entries for you. The truth is, I don't write much at all. Sure, I get paid to come up with two-word headlines and an occasional cluster of sentences that eventually morph to client-mandated bullets, but other than that, I don't do it. And it makes me very sad.

I've written longer than I could spell. It's always been my passion. Boxes of journals are collecting dust in my parents' attic. Each one is stacked cover-to-cover with words. Good words too. Words better than good. Sentences longer than five words.

I still keep a couple of spirals stuffed inside my bedside table. Another rests in my backpack. Their first couple of pages are scrawled with random thoughts, promises to exercise more, to-do lists and curse word-infested rants. The rest of the pages are pathetically blank.

I really have no one to blame but myself. If I wanted to, I could pick up this laptop every night and peck something out. Anything. Good or bad. My writer friend does it. Her stuff is always good though.

I will try to write more. Not every night, but more than I do now. Perhaps I can force myself into a state of inspiration. Maybe I can make myself be moved by miniscule moments. See? A little alliteration to kick things off! I used a B verb, but eh, I gotta start somewhere.

Or maybe this will be just another first page in a mostly-empty digital spiral. Hmmm... I suppose I should be a bit more positive and a tad less melancholic. Guess it's just the writer in me.

Until next time,

Me

Dear Spearmint Rhino,

2009-01-14T07:36:00.000-08:00

This morning I heard a radio spot promoting your gentleman's club. Aaaaaand, as a responsible copywriter, I have a coupla issues with it.

First of all, I don't believe the term "gentleman" fits. No gentleman is going to throw money at a stripper. A charity, maybe. A stripper, no. And no, strippers are not charity cases. Also, just an FYI: sipping scotch while ogling barely-legal girls doesn't make you a gentleman. It's makes you a voyeur. Funding the education or rent of a stripper with your not-so-disposable income doesn't make you a gentleman either. It makes you a sucker.

Second of all, you called your place "upscale." What's upscale about chicks taking off their clothes for dollars? It's one step up from getting paid for getting laid. And I don't care how many plush chairs you have, I promise if someone came into your establishment with a UV light, it wouldn't look so upscale.

Look, I'm not trying to be a hater, okay? I know people, especially in this economy, have to make a paycheck. And I know not every woman out there is as smart, talented and driven as I am. I'm just asking you to call it like it is, okay? Here's an idea:

Not getting enough attention on the dating scene? Want to make your friends think you're a big balla? Not a problem! Got some singles? Come to the Spearmint Rhino and throw them at naked women in cheap, clear acrylic shoes. They'll sit on your lap and make you feel important until your wallet is empty. And when that happens, no worries, we have ATMs.

Just an idea,

Me

Dear A-hole Litterbugs on I635,

2008-11-19T12:16:00.000-08:00

I saw what you did. Both of you.

To the first jerk in the Audi:
When I caught a glimpse of the fluttering napkins, I gave you the benefit of the doubt and wrote it off as an accident. But when the McDonald’s bag came flying toward my car, I became enraged. I mean, come on! Who throws a bag of half-eaten chicken nuggets and fries out their car window? On the highway? First of all, it's wasting food. I love food. A lot. Second of all, it's littering. I have a friend who would have surely kicked your ace. You’re lucky I only laid on my horn. If I had something (biodegradable) to throw at you, I would have.

To the second jerk in the Cavalier:
I was already pretty t-ed off at your buddy in the Audi, so when I saw you toss something papery out of your window, there was no chance in hell you were going to get off easily. That’s why I pulled up next to you, honked my horn a million times and wagged my finger like a crazy woman. Yeah, you looked confused. And scared. But I don’t care! You’re a punk kid with a trashcan complex.

To both of you:
You know, virtually every gas station and shopping center I’ve EVER seen in my ENTIRE life has had wastebaskets. And I’m pretty positive you have a few at home. Plus, plastic grocery sacks* make handy trash bags for your car. So basically, I’ve come to the conclusion that both of you are a lazy sacks of shit. I normally don’t curse in my blog, but I feel, in this case, it’s okay. You are trashy. No pun intended.

Eff off,

Me

*Honestly, you shouldn’t be using plastic grocery sacks anyway. It’s much greener to bring your own canvas bags to the grocery store instead.

Dear Blog,

2008-10-23T07:56:00.001-07:00

You're a joke. I don't know why I waste time with you. You lack substance and relevance. Nobody reads you. Nobody cares what you say.

Your words are simple and lame. A third grader could write you.

I was reading old blogs I wrote (I'd written? Grammar Avenger? Help?) in college and they rocked. Then, it occurred to me that I might very well be washed up at age 25.

Where's the passion? Has advertising stifled my creativity or just tightened up my sentences?

I don't know... I do know that omitting curse words from my blog has made it sound silly and romantic. But then again, I am silly and romantic. Just not passionate, apparently.

Whatever, Blog. You suck. I hate you. You're worthless.

Please die,

Me

Dear Gas Pipe,

2008-10-22T07:57:00.003-07:00

Seriously? I mean, come on. You're making the rest of us look bad.

Here you go. You can thank me later.

And for those of you who take pleasure in the stupidity of others, go here.

Peace,

Me

Dear Future Child,

2008-10-21T12:31:00.000-07:00

I don’t know you, but I miss you. I want to wrap your golden locks into braids and ribbons or tuck it under a baseball cap. Then, I want to take you to the park. It’s a gorgeous day and you deserve to enjoy it. Plus, if you were here, I wouldn’t be at work. Hopefully. No, definitely.

If you were here, I’d push you on the swings as high as you wanted to go. We’d pretend you were an eagle flying in today’s perfect blue sky. Next, I’d spin you on the merry-go-round until you begged me slow down.

I always feel bad for the kids at the playground whose mothers won’t let them swing high and spin fast. I’m not going to be one of those moms. Don’t worry; we’ll strap you in tightly. I mean, if worse comes to worst, just remember you’re a kid. You can afford to break a bone or two. Plus, we’re insured, so it’s all good, baby.

Later, you’d stand at the top of the slide and bravely announce that you were coming down. I’d meet you at the bottom with open arms. We could play tag, hide and seek and red light/green light. Any game you wanted, love. I’d take you fishing in the nearest pond. If there weren’t any ponds, we’d explore creeks. There’s nothing like getting muddy, right?

We’d have a picnic and munch on peanut butter and honey sandwiches, Granny Smith apples and these. They're so tasty and only have 30 calories per serving. Trust me, they're money. I eat them all the time.

Anyway, kiddo, I was just thinking about you and wanted to say hi. Also, I wanted you to know how much I loved you (before I even knew you).

See you in a decade or so,

Mom

Dear Foul Mood,

2008-09-22T09:49:00.000-07:00

You're a jerkface.

I wish you'd go away. I've been fighting with you since I woke up this morning and I've done everything in my power to dismiss you. I've worked out, prayed, ate some blueberries, listened to this song...* But it's like you are permanently glued to my soul. The fact that my cubicle smells like a burning vacuum cleaner doesn't help. And yeah, I checked — it's not me.

I hate you, Foul Mood. I hope you die soon. I want to chemically pacify you, but it's not even noon. And it's a Monday.

*Sigh*

Also, I love the term "chemically pacify." I found it in the book I'm currently reading. I couldn't wait to use it.

I do feel a bit better after writing you this note. So hopefully my day is saved!

To bluer skies,

Me

*If your job sucks and you can't access youtube, go here to listen to the song I mentioned above.

Dear Bed Bath and Beyond,

2008-09-19T09:11:00.001-07:00

You're expensive. Seriously. Maybe I'm just cheap, but dang.

The other day, my pal and I roamed your aisles in search of sheets and omelette pans. We somehow found ourselves in a mountain of towels.

"Dude," I shouted, "this towel costs..." my right hand held up four fingers as my left hand formed a zero. I mouthed 'forty' as if it were a curse word. "...dollars!"

"Oh yeah? Well, this one is $60."

My jaw dropped to my knees."You're kidding, right?"

"Nope."

What's your deal, Bed Bath and Beyond? How can you charge more than ten bucks for a towel and still flaunt a grammatically incorrect logo? I mean, where's the money going? And where's the comma?

Anyway, my pal ended up buying me one of your plush towels. I can't really tell the difference between it and my Target special. Except for the fact that yours is much thicker. And softer. And more absorbent. Oh, and it reminds me of a woven-together piece of heaven.

Also, BBAB — you make me want to get married just so I can register for everything in your overpriced store. There are other reasons I want to get married (like guilt-free sex on demand), but free stuff is the main one.

Oh — awesome idea! I could register for Christmas presents. Is that rude and inappropriate? Yes, it is. I could totally send out Christmas cards with a footnote saying, "Registered at Bed Bath and Beyond."

I am so terrible.

Thanks,

Me

Dear Driving,

2008-09-19T09:03:00.001-07:00

Why must I be faced with your hell every day? I'm not good at you, D. In fact, I suck. You can ask any of my friends. No one wants to ride with me. Ever.

Plus, my gas-sucking car is an impossible-to-maneuver tank.
But it was free, so I shouldn't complain like a spoiled brat.

*Sigh*

You should see me try to park that mammoth ride. Remember this scene in Austin Powers? Yeah. That's me. Every day.

Look, I've weighed the pros and cons. I know with you in my life, I have the freedom and privilege to go where I want when I please. I could be in a different state by tonight — all because of you, Driving. Dude — you've totally taken me places.

But we don't get along, simple as that. Please don't say I didn't try. We've both spent the last decade trying to make this work. Make US work. But the speeding tickets, the wrecks, the flat tires... they sadly outweigh the road trips, the windows-down sing-a-longs and the drive-thru conversations. It's just over between us. I'd rather be driven, that's all.

I want to gaze out windows and jam to solid tunes while traveling, not zoom in and out of lanes at 65 miles an hour in a giant metal box on wheels, surrounded by other giant metal boxes on wheels doing the same thing.

Call me crazy, but that sounds dangerous.

Thanks,

Me

Dear Love of My Life,

2008-07-25T10:14:00.000-07:00

Today's Dictionary.com's word of the day is sempiternal.

sempiternal \sem-pih-TUR-nuhl\, adjective:
Of never ending duration; having beginning but no end; everlasting; endless.

Today's word of the day made me think of you.

Darling, wherever/whomever you are, please know that I'll always do my part to help create a sempiternal love between us.

I'd be lying if I said we'd never fight. I can't promise that we won't occasionally hurt each other's feelings. There might even be times when we want to walk away.

But I can guarantee that as long as you are there, I will be there too.

I will always actively love you.

Only yours,

Me

Dear Shark Lovers,

2008-07-22T13:27:00.000-07:00

It’s time for another week of teeth-gnashing, jaw-clamping, train wreck-watching fun. Yes, folks. Shark Week is back.

From July 27 - August 2, catch all the bloodthirsty action on Discovery Channel.

Their promo site is pretty awesome, even if it’s all done in Flash and ridden with advertisements. It’s super interactive and includes viral components to drive traffic. I’m pretty sure the budget for this project was nonexistent.

Kickass Feature #1
SharkRunners
Hop on your ship, find REAL sharks, study their every move and compile research to earn enough bank to improve your observation methods. Compete with other ships to see who’s the biggest, baddest sharkrunner.

Kickass Feature #2
State of the Shark
Find out which sharks swim where.

Kickass Feature #3
Video Mixer
Graphics + Transitions + Video + Sound Effects + Music = How is a noted documentary filmmaker like me supposed to find time to write copy for a corporate giant? Hmmm… Is this billable?

Kickass Feature #4
Shark Conservation Blog
Hey, man. Don’t kill a bunch of sharks, okay? Each year, more people are struck by lightning than attacked by sharks. Yeah, occasionally, these predators bite people. You’re in their world, dumbass. They’re hungry. Stuff happens. You lose.

Kickass Feature #5
Shark Yourself
Dude. I totally saved the best for last. Upload a pic (of yourself, a friend, your dog), customize it with a massive shark grill and email it to all your friends.

Happy shark watching and ocean fearing,

Me

P.S. Can't wait another day to sink your teeth into Shark Week? Don't forget about this classic.

Dear Inspiration,

2008-07-22T13:15:00.000-07:00

Hello, old friend. Remember me? Where have you been? I’ve been sitting here trying to write for weeks, but nothing good has left my pen. See? I just used the word good. It sucks. I’m starting to doubt myself. Please come back. And bring your friends, Talent, Creativity and Humor. Grammar too, I guess.

Oh, Inspiration, your absence surprises me. I’m currently heartbroken. We all know nothing writes better than a broken heart. So, where the heck are you?

Also, I think I might be unheartbroken. Ya know — fixed. It doesn’t hurt anymore when I think about it. Okay, that’s a lie. But it’s definitely gotten easier. The pain isn’t paralyzing and the constant lump in my throat has dissolved into a tiny pebble in my shoe. That’s progress. I can’t listen to any of the CDs I’ve burned in the last year and a half, but whatev, yo.

Anyway, Inspy, I hope you’ll come home soon and make silly blogs like this one obsolete. I miss you.

Your friend always,

Me