Letters Never Sent...

Dear Control-Freak Drivers,

I realize that we live in a world where no one else matters more than yourself. I also know you manifest this manic tendency in multiple ways. First, you may catch a glimpse of me driving along just over the speed limit coming up behind you--and see a younger chick driving my car--and automatically assume that I must be "taught a lesson" about safe driving by you behind the wheel of your overstuffed family vehicle with "Baby on Board" sign proudly displayed on one of your stylistically tinted windows. Your reaction under these circumstances is usually to slow down to three or four miles per hour under the speed limit, ultimately endangering the many bundles of joy that are in your car as my frustration gradually extends into the "road rage" category. Or, on the other hand, you may see me coming and know that you are going to force me to hit the brake rather hard if you pull out from Stop and Shop a spilt second before I pass you by (with no one behind me, I might add). As a result, you, with all of your superior years on the road before the gas shortages of the 1970s, wisely decide to turn onto the road in front of me anyway, and then drive exactly at the thirty-mile-per-hour speed limit all the way down the one-lane road extending between me and where I live. I applaud your efforts to deserve the smug look on your face as I sail by you as soon as a second lane appears in either of these circumstances. It's always nice to feel superior, even for a few brief seconds, and especially in environments where the people you've ticked off can't say anything audible to you when you pull your mean-spirited jaunts. I'd like to inform you that I have contacted the Department of Transportation and formally proposed that all cars be fitted with a radio system whereby I, the offended party, can simply type into the computer your lisence plate number and then immediately be connected to the audio system inside your car to tell you what an incredible ass you really are. I feel that this may be the only way you may think twice before impeding my progress on purpose just to feel that little bit better about yourself you apparently need.


Dear Self-Obsessed-Facebook-Profile-Editor,

I admit, yes, I did ask for it by "friending" you online, so I only have myself to blame for the multiple repeat appearances of your name on my "News Feed" every time I check the website. I also admit that Facebook is only one of a number of websites that force people to share information about themselves in inordinate dosages. However, I hate to inform you that I do not believe anyone on your friend list is that interested in your 50+ "Notes" about yourself and your opinions or the continuous updates of your "Status" which include mundane details such as dish washing. I know that the endless searching you do to find "Groups" that truly fit your personality and interests should be acknowledged by the world as a whole, given the list of them extends at least halfway down the long page you have filled out about yourself. Regardless, I must alert you to a few observations--one, that you must spend too many hours in front of a computer given the amount of time that it takes to produce those multiple gems of personal information on my "News Feed" every day. As a result, you may adulterate such important things as your sight and your relationships with actual breathing people (some of whom are on your friend list and may want to see rather than read all about you). My advice? See if you can go one full twenty-four-hour period without "perfecting" your personal information on Facebook. Yes, I know, baby steps toward the goal of actually combatting this obsession, but progress is progress nonetheless. God forbid you go out into the real world and meet someone who may be more talented or perhaps even more interesting than you are.


Dear Self-Important-Woman-With-Too-Much-Time-And-Too-Little-To-Do,

Yes, society is funny isn't it? Since it became unpopular to employ or even own a servant staff of your own, I know circumstances have compelled you to find other targets for your sense of personal superiority. These mainly come in the form of staffpeople at your more frequented establishments such as Panera or Starbucks. However, I regret to inform you that no matter how many times you make an appearance at one of these local businesses, the people there aren't looking for when you are going to come in that day. In fact, this may actually extend to the staff not setting things up to your liking for when you do ultimately arrive. Because of a long morning rush of caffine-deprived small-time-suit-wearers, the Starbucks staff may not have quite gotten around to refilling the milk dispensers, for example, and perhaps, they may not "learn something" from your lecture about how "it is NEVER like this" whenever "YOU" come in for your non-fat, half-caff latte. Outside of the statements themselves, you may be surprised to find out that few people are going to take a forty-something upperclass socialite who is "supported" by her husband wearing a Prada version of camoflage cargo pants, Chanel sunglasses shaped like a box, and with hair dyed that shade of red that insults real redheads everywhere seriously. In fact, you may be shocked to discover that a simple "please" and "thank you" (don't tell me you didn't watch Sesame Street growing up) may get you all that you need or want and may even earn you a smile from the staff when you do come in again. You're more assured to get that result under that premise because otherwise, when you return and you turn your head away for one split second, you don't want to know what the barista is putting in your drink.


The above are letters to people you always "wished" you could send, but ultimately could not because you probably didn't fall into one of the types of categories that would compel doing anything more than waiting out your aggrivation at the actions of other people. I encourage any and all forms of liberation of such frustration. What's a blog for?