A Series of Absolutely Unrelated Open Letters To Things That Frustrate And/Or Enamor Me

Dear Moped Man,

Dude. You have a moped. I have a car. We are in a strip mall parking lot. There is bidirectional traffic on the road that runs through the mall. That road has a speed limit, presumably a low one, presumably because people need to be able to back out of the parking spaces without being jammed in the ass. I don't know who you think you are, but swerving around cars is a bad idea. One (me) presumes that you are on a moped because you have lost your driver's license; in my experience, that is how these things work. And I'd believe it, based on the way that you stupidly passed me going 25 miles an hour because you're impatient. For future reference: my vehicle, 2000 lbs; your vehicle, 200 lbs.

Love,

Me

Dear Bra That I Accidentally Bought From Target,

I was looking for a different bra last week at Target, when I saw you. I've been buying the same bra from there for years, now, and I even cheated on my I-Should-Be-Boycotting-Target-Because-They-Support-Anti-Gay-Candidates Boycott because I desperately needed a new one of you. Well, not you, exactly.

Here's the problem. I buy demi-plunge bras for a reason. 1) The cup doesn't show over tank-tops. 2) The plunge allows for a lower cut of tops, like in certain dresses. I'm young, I'm kind of cute. So, you know, those things work for me. I like my straps to fit under tank tops. I don't wear them often, but I like to be prepared.

While frantically looking for this style of bra, I found you. I picked you up as a "Just-In-Case," as in, "This-Would-Do-In-A-Pinch-If-I-Can't-Find-That-One" option. But then I found that one. In the right size and everything. So, satisfied, I put down the bra I would no longer be needing as a back up. Or, so I thought.

When I got home with you, I realized I had made a grave mistake. But I wore you anyway. You have super thick straps. And you are way too high up on my boob. And this is not working out.

I'm really sorry to break this to you, but you are an old lady bra. And you won't stop staying under my tank top today, so you are making me look like a trashy old lady. And it's really not working out for me. So I'm afraid we may need to break up. It's not you, it's me.

Well, it may be a little you too.

Sorry!

Me

Dear Target,

Alienating the gays was probably one of the dumbest things you could have ever done. I love your designer lines dearly -- how many of those were designed by awesome gay dudes? I bet a lot! Figure it out, and stop being a homophobe. Quick. I need a new bra.

Seriously,

Me

Dear Fellow Wal-Mart Customer,

I have no idea where you would possibly go to purchase a (non-hooded) sweatshirt that reads "University of OZ" with a picture of Toto on it. No, seriously. Where could you have possibly purchased that? And for what reason? I saw you 24 hours ago, and I can't stop thinking about you. My mind is completely blown.

Infatuatedly yours,

Me

Dear Marijuana,

If you were legal, I would probably smoke you more than the occasional hit once a year. In the mean time, thanks for helping me have these conversations with my stoner friends.

R (stoned): How strong are pheromones?

Me (not stoned): Uh, I don't know?

R (still stoned): Pheromones are very strong.

(30 minutes later)

R (pretty stoned): We might not have enough paper.

Me (still awfully sober): We have plenty of paper.

R (sooo stoned): We might have too much paper.

Keep cool (and I know you will),

Me