Dear Christina,

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,

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,

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,

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,

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,

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,

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