Dear eight year old Angela,
You are not going to marry your dad. It wouldn't have worked out anyway, as he already has your mom. I'm sorry.
Love, Angela
Dear twelve year old Angela,
You are not going to marry Yale Hamrick. It wouldn't have worked out anyway, as he never really knew who you were, and you never had a class together after eighth grade. I'm sorry.
Love, Angela
Dear fifteen year old Angela,
You are not going to marry Jonny Lang. It wouldn't have worked out anyway, as he is a world famous guitar player, and quite beyond your reach. I'm sorry.
Love, Angela
Dear seventeen year old Angela,
You are going to marry Joe Vann. Don't do anything stupid like break up with him out of teenage frustration or argue about things that don't matter. Tread carefully and take care of him. CONGRATULATIONS!
Love, Angela
Showing posts with label To Specific People. Show all posts
Showing posts with label To Specific People. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Ms.Voorhies,
Ms.Voorhies,
You may not remember me. I was in your 11th grade Algebra 2 class in 2000. I wanted to let you know that I finally figured out all of those weird concepts you kept trying to tell us about combining like terms and distributing. While comtemplating mathmatics, I devised this equation that makes relaxation possible. Feel free to submit it to a math journal and make millions, I don't with to pursue publication.
guinness+pub-work = 4(friends+music)
_________________________
thursday
You may not remember me. I was in your 11th grade Algebra 2 class in 2000. I wanted to let you know that I finally figured out all of those weird concepts you kept trying to tell us about combining like terms and distributing. While comtemplating mathmatics, I devised this equation that makes relaxation possible. Feel free to submit it to a math journal and make millions, I don't with to pursue publication.
_________________________
thursday
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Dear Robert McEvily,
Dear Robert McEvily,
Thanks so much for accepting my submission. I look forward to joining the Six Sentences crew on 5/14/07!
Sincerely,
Newbie
Thanks so much for accepting my submission. I look forward to joining the Six Sentences crew on 5/14/07!
Sincerely,
Newbie
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Dear Lindsay B,
Dear Lindsay B,
Today you are 25. Twenty-five years ago today you made your way onto the scene, a little too early and a little too small. (Don't worry about arriving too early, by the way, forget about it. You have more than made up for it by being late to almost everything else between then and now.) Though I was not present, I know that your arrival was marked with joy and fanfare, as we first born are blessed with both.
Lindsay, it would be neat if we had an anniversary. If we did, we could celebrate our friendship with margaritas and an X-files marathon, all while play hand slap games on the porch. I would tell you that there was no Santa Clause, and you would explain sex to me. After, we would ride our bikes around the block to the lighthouse and then climb it. The last one to the top of the lighthouse would have to to forfeit shuffling privileges for the next ten games of speed, while the winner would get the big couch to sleep on that night.
Because 6 year olds are not overly handy about jotting down dates, however, we do not have an anniversary. With this in mind, please allow me to extend my tribute to our friendship on the anniversary of yourself.
Here's to you, Lindsay. I love you.
Your friend (for life!),
Rocker Barbie
P.S. Do you remember a couple years ago when we went Christmas shopping together? That was, seriously, the best time I have ever had shopping. Hands down. End of story. The best.
Today you are 25. Twenty-five years ago today you made your way onto the scene, a little too early and a little too small. (Don't worry about arriving too early, by the way, forget about it. You have more than made up for it by being late to almost everything else between then and now.) Though I was not present, I know that your arrival was marked with joy and fanfare, as we first born are blessed with both.
Lindsay, it would be neat if we had an anniversary. If we did, we could celebrate our friendship with margaritas and an X-files marathon, all while play hand slap games on the porch. I would tell you that there was no Santa Clause, and you would explain sex to me. After, we would ride our bikes around the block to the lighthouse and then climb it. The last one to the top of the lighthouse would have to to forfeit shuffling privileges for the next ten games of speed, while the winner would get the big couch to sleep on that night.
Because 6 year olds are not overly handy about jotting down dates, however, we do not have an anniversary. With this in mind, please allow me to extend my tribute to our friendship on the anniversary of yourself.
Here's to you, Lindsay. I love you.
Your friend (for life!),
Rocker Barbie
P.S. Do you remember a couple years ago when we went Christmas shopping together? That was, seriously, the best time I have ever had shopping. Hands down. End of story. The best.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Dear Jason Jackson,
Dear Jason Jackson,
I think about you on Valentine's Day. Not all day, and I don't get emotional or anything, just a little bothered. A little bothered at myself, feeling a slight twinge of regret in my stomach, thinking about how I was mean. In addition to Valentine's day this year, I thought of you today as well, as I pulled a card out of a shoebox under my bed.
Not many girls can say they were sent rather expensive looking flowers via FTD in 8th grade. I can, though! I was surprised and thankful. If I were the only one who knew I had received them, and I had lived in a fairly reasonable household or had friends who accepted you, I would have probably walked over to your house as soon as they came and said thanks, or at least waved at the bus stop the next day. But those were not the circumstances. Instead of thinking the gesture was cute and juvenile, my parents wanted to know if I knew you had sent them, WHAT I HAD DONE to make you think you should send them, and reminded me about twenty times that I was not old enough to date and that I should not expect my telephone habits to change, just because I had an "admirer." My friend thought of you as nothing more than a (I’m sorry) fat troublemaker. My opinion of you was shaped by this.
Today I was looking for a photograph, but all was forgotten as I opened the card, dated exactly one year after the flowers were sent. Both the handwriting and spelling were atrocious, but the words made me smile. "I know they say third times a charm. So this will be the last time I ask. Will you go out with me. Tell me if you said yes tomorrow at the bus stop. If you say nothing, I will understand."
I'm not trying to make excuses for how I reacted, which was horrible. Originally, I told everyone about the flowers, because I thought it was sweet. The general reaction, however, was to laugh at your desperate attempt, because it seemed quite obvious to everyone else that I would never want to have anything to do with you. When these things were said, I was immediately sorry I had shared our secret, but felt I had little choice but to laugh along with everyone else. I never spoke with you, despite the fact that we walked a whole block down the same sidewalk at the same time each day. I ignored you, afraid that if someone saw us talking and remembered your gift, they would assume that I liked you. This liking, as I recall would have been a great offence, punishable by being ostracized.
The card that followed the following year, left in the handle of my screen door, was opened and then filed quietly into the shoebox it remains in.
Jason, please know that if those flowers came today, I would call you on the telephone and tell you how lovely they are. I would thank you for thinking of me, and ask you how you are. I would send you a thank-you note in the mail, with a smiley face sticker affixed to the envelope. I would appreciate them, and treat their giver with respect.
If you remember me at all, you probably associate me with rejection and rudeness. I am sorry for this, as I remember you as someone thoughtful and non-abrasive. After all, "if I said nothing, you would understand."
I am sorry,
Your old neighbor
I think about you on Valentine's Day. Not all day, and I don't get emotional or anything, just a little bothered. A little bothered at myself, feeling a slight twinge of regret in my stomach, thinking about how I was mean. In addition to Valentine's day this year, I thought of you today as well, as I pulled a card out of a shoebox under my bed.
Not many girls can say they were sent rather expensive looking flowers via FTD in 8th grade. I can, though! I was surprised and thankful. If I were the only one who knew I had received them, and I had lived in a fairly reasonable household or had friends who accepted you, I would have probably walked over to your house as soon as they came and said thanks, or at least waved at the bus stop the next day. But those were not the circumstances. Instead of thinking the gesture was cute and juvenile, my parents wanted to know if I knew you had sent them, WHAT I HAD DONE to make you think you should send them, and reminded me about twenty times that I was not old enough to date and that I should not expect my telephone habits to change, just because I had an "admirer." My friend thought of you as nothing more than a (I’m sorry) fat troublemaker. My opinion of you was shaped by this.
Today I was looking for a photograph, but all was forgotten as I opened the card, dated exactly one year after the flowers were sent. Both the handwriting and spelling were atrocious, but the words made me smile. "I know they say third times a charm. So this will be the last time I ask. Will you go out with me. Tell me if you said yes tomorrow at the bus stop. If you say nothing, I will understand."
I'm not trying to make excuses for how I reacted, which was horrible. Originally, I told everyone about the flowers, because I thought it was sweet. The general reaction, however, was to laugh at your desperate attempt, because it seemed quite obvious to everyone else that I would never want to have anything to do with you. When these things were said, I was immediately sorry I had shared our secret, but felt I had little choice but to laugh along with everyone else. I never spoke with you, despite the fact that we walked a whole block down the same sidewalk at the same time each day. I ignored you, afraid that if someone saw us talking and remembered your gift, they would assume that I liked you. This liking, as I recall would have been a great offence, punishable by being ostracized.
The card that followed the following year, left in the handle of my screen door, was opened and then filed quietly into the shoebox it remains in.
Jason, please know that if those flowers came today, I would call you on the telephone and tell you how lovely they are. I would thank you for thinking of me, and ask you how you are. I would send you a thank-you note in the mail, with a smiley face sticker affixed to the envelope. I would appreciate them, and treat their giver with respect.
If you remember me at all, you probably associate me with rejection and rudeness. I am sorry for this, as I remember you as someone thoughtful and non-abrasive. After all, "if I said nothing, you would understand."
I am sorry,
Your old neighbor
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Dear Kurt Vonnegut,
Dear Kurt Vonnegut,
Last night while in bed, someone who loves me sent me a text message to let me know you had passed away. I read it, rolled over to burry my face in pillow, and willed myself not to cry. It was hard, but I succeeded. Putting my energy into a more fruitful activity, I began to think instead. I thought about how you had influenced me to write, question, and learn. I thought about copies of your paperbacks on my self and how I had acquired them, of the best “Vonnegut conversation” I had ever participated in, about the (timely) Rolling Stone article that someone had just written about you, about your dead wives, your long life, your insistence upon realism (the state of mind, not the movement), and WWII. I thought about the American education system, high school English curriculum, 70’s college students, photos of you at your desk, how a generation can idolize someone while their progeny underrates them, and about how I should have probably chosen Slaughter house Five to construct my instructional unit on, instead of Catcher in the Rye.
Finally, I wondered if George W. Bush had killed you. Not in the actual sense, though I would not put it past him to justify murdering someone, but in the sense that, perhaps, you could not exist in a world that he controlled for one second longer. That if, perhaps, had he only seen one term, you would have been with us until you were 105. I couldn’t help but think that maybe your well-articulated idealism (based in a lifetime of very real experiences) could no longer function in the society in which you lived, and so your body had no choice but to shut down. This saddens me deeply.
Mr. Vonnegut, you will be missed, remembered, and read. Less frequently, but more importantly, you will be understood, and those you have inspired will put your ideas into action. It is this legacy that I thank you for.
Your Friend,
A Woman Without A Country
Last night while in bed, someone who loves me sent me a text message to let me know you had passed away. I read it, rolled over to burry my face in pillow, and willed myself not to cry. It was hard, but I succeeded. Putting my energy into a more fruitful activity, I began to think instead. I thought about how you had influenced me to write, question, and learn. I thought about copies of your paperbacks on my self and how I had acquired them, of the best “Vonnegut conversation” I had ever participated in, about the (timely) Rolling Stone article that someone had just written about you, about your dead wives, your long life, your insistence upon realism (the state of mind, not the movement), and WWII. I thought about the American education system, high school English curriculum, 70’s college students, photos of you at your desk, how a generation can idolize someone while their progeny underrates them, and about how I should have probably chosen Slaughter house Five to construct my instructional unit on, instead of Catcher in the Rye.
Finally, I wondered if George W. Bush had killed you. Not in the actual sense, though I would not put it past him to justify murdering someone, but in the sense that, perhaps, you could not exist in a world that he controlled for one second longer. That if, perhaps, had he only seen one term, you would have been with us until you were 105. I couldn’t help but think that maybe your well-articulated idealism (based in a lifetime of very real experiences) could no longer function in the society in which you lived, and so your body had no choice but to shut down. This saddens me deeply.
Mr. Vonnegut, you will be missed, remembered, and read. Less frequently, but more importantly, you will be understood, and those you have inspired will put your ideas into action. It is this legacy that I thank you for.
Your Friend,
A Woman Without A Country
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Dear Professor Shelly,
Dear Professor Shelly,
The paper that you will receive from me tonight will be pure and utter crap. I can tell you this much already because it is due at 6pm and it is now 3:25. You are correct in your probable assumption that it is not yet started.
This illustrates not only laziness and exhaustion, but also complete stupidity on my part. You see, I need to pull my Social Studies GPA up 3 three tenths of a point this semester in order for me to student teach in September, and generally get my life out of the crapper. This will not happen unless I receive an A in your class. Even now, as I type this, the time ticks away, and I am no closer to beginning the paper than the moment before. I keep telling myself that I can complete four pages in a little over two hours, so there is no need to worry. If this were the case, why didn't I take two hours last night to complete them? At the time, sleep seemed much more important.
You may wonder what possesses me to make such stupid decisions, and how else I spent my time. I can tell you that I have no reasons or reward to show for my disgraceful procrastination.
In all of your years of teaching, I'm sure this paper will be the jewel in the Crap Crown of Academics.
Congratulations on being the recipient.
Later,
Sorry Student
The paper that you will receive from me tonight will be pure and utter crap. I can tell you this much already because it is due at 6pm and it is now 3:25. You are correct in your probable assumption that it is not yet started.
This illustrates not only laziness and exhaustion, but also complete stupidity on my part. You see, I need to pull my Social Studies GPA up 3 three tenths of a point this semester in order for me to student teach in September, and generally get my life out of the crapper. This will not happen unless I receive an A in your class. Even now, as I type this, the time ticks away, and I am no closer to beginning the paper than the moment before. I keep telling myself that I can complete four pages in a little over two hours, so there is no need to worry. If this were the case, why didn't I take two hours last night to complete them? At the time, sleep seemed much more important.
You may wonder what possesses me to make such stupid decisions, and how else I spent my time. I can tell you that I have no reasons or reward to show for my disgraceful procrastination.
In all of your years of teaching, I'm sure this paper will be the jewel in the Crap Crown of Academics.
Congratulations on being the recipient.
Later,
Sorry Student
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Dear Chris Sligh,
Dear Chris Sligh,
If I decide to use my anytime minutes to cast useless votes for a time wasting television program, they will be for you.
You are welcome,
Couch Potato
If I decide to use my anytime minutes to cast useless votes for a time wasting television program, they will be for you.
You are welcome,
Couch Potato
Friday, January 05, 2007
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Dear Walt Whitman,
Dear Walt Whitman,
You have recently given me a good dose of encouragement and perspective. Though we do not have a lot in common (I am female, straight, alive, and generally unappreciative), I feel that you related to me in a way today that allowed me to accept what I have secretly known all along: Nothing new is happening to me. Though I am in some ways unique, all of my worries, fears and discoveries are old hat. I'm not alone, I'm going to get through it, people understand and its going to be okay.
Thank you,
Myself
Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news, the fitful events,
These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.
~excerpt from Song of Myself, W.Whitman, 1881
Monday, December 04, 2006
Dear Juliane,
Dear Juliane,
I see that you have been drawn over to the darkside. I assume your letter to me says as much...it may even apologise, or attempt to justify. I wouldn't know, however, since I can't read the letter addressed to me, since you have your blog entries restricted. LAME!
Love,
Your Sister
I see that you have been drawn over to the darkside. I assume your letter to me says as much...it may even apologise, or attempt to justify. I wouldn't know, however, since I can't read the letter addressed to me, since you have your blog entries restricted. LAME!
Love,
Your Sister
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Dear Dearborn Police Officer With the Pointy Head,
Dear Dearborn Police Officer With the Pointy Head,
Hello, and good evening to you. I would like to extend my sympathies to you for getting stuck with a pretty crappy shift. I know that working on Saturday nights is always a drag, even if you are making time and a half. I understand the seriousness of your job, and appreciate the fact that you chose the demanding career of protection .
Though I have not gone through extensive training as you have, I feel I have a valid time saving tip to offer you, and would like to submit it now if I may. If you happen to see me on the road again, you needn't follow me anymore. I don't drink and drive. Ever.
I understand your need to be cautious with each car that pulls out of questionable locations, but your fishing is in vain when I drive past. Please see sales receipt enclosed below, with my portion of the bill highlighted.
To answer your unasked questions, no, I didn't really want a slurpee, and yes, I was trying to avoid you when I pulled into 7-11. I gather you figured that out, but was it really necessary to follow me into 7-11, and then watch me pour my slurpee, all while acting like you were buying a candy bar? You are an officer of the law, I'm sure you could have checked me out and saved the 98 cents.
I'm glad you realized that only a sober person could hold a huge purse, two Slurpees, a bag of Cheez-its and a SlimJim, all while wearing heels.
Keep it Real,
Designated Driver
Hello, and good evening to you. I would like to extend my sympathies to you for getting stuck with a pretty crappy shift. I know that working on Saturday nights is always a drag, even if you are making time and a half. I understand the seriousness of your job, and appreciate the fact that you chose the demanding career of protection .
Though I have not gone through extensive training as you have, I feel I have a valid time saving tip to offer you, and would like to submit it now if I may. If you happen to see me on the road again, you needn't follow me anymore. I don't drink and drive. Ever.
I understand your need to be cautious with each car that pulls out of questionable locations, but your fishing is in vain when I drive past. Please see sales receipt enclosed below, with my portion of the bill highlighted.
Further, following me for several miles down Monroe street was not only pointless, but unnecessary. I would have been much happier to pull over and fork over my mug shot card and registration than nervously try to "drive normal," whatever that means. I already have a very slight case of nervousness driving in the dark, due to my less than stellar vision.
To answer your unasked questions, no, I didn't really want a slurpee, and yes, I was trying to avoid you when I pulled into 7-11. I gather you figured that out, but was it really necessary to follow me into 7-11, and then watch me pour my slurpee, all while acting like you were buying a candy bar? You are an officer of the law, I'm sure you could have checked me out and saved the 98 cents.
I'm glad you realized that only a sober person could hold a huge purse, two Slurpees, a bag of Cheez-its and a SlimJim, all while wearing heels.
Keep it Real,
Designated Driver
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Dear Mrs. Karhough,
Dear Mrs. Karhough,
You were a very memorable kindergarten teacher. Though not exactly Froebel in your teaching methods, a lot of little things we did in class stay with me as big memories. It occurred to me today that I may remember things incorrectly because of my five year old perception at the time I attended your classroom.
For example, skeletons tend to freak me out.(No, I'm not in a profession that requires I be in close proximity to skeletons. I'm just referring to models at school or in the chiropractor's office.) Not because they were once a person, I'm okay with that, and surprisingly, skulls are just fine with me. Its when they are on a whole skeleton that tend to make me crazy. Its because I'm always secretly waiting for them to walk or dance!
I remember vividly where this comes from. In your class on Halloween, we all dressed in our costumes and paraded around the school. Then, after all of the mommies and daddies went home, we sat in the circle to read a Halloween book, and then we got snacks. Because it was Halloween, you explained, we were going to have a special treat during snack, a cute Halloween cartoon that you loved when you were a kid!
For the next five minutes, I hardly breathed, because I was too scared. These horrible skeletons were dancing and dancing and dancing. This is all I remembered, until today. Sometimes in classrooms, during the years that followed, I would say a quick thank you to God or circumstance that I was not in said class by myself, since there was a skeleton model in it. What a horrible image in my head!
Today, I realized that I'm still afraid of the image, but I don't remember it! I thought rationally that if I could view the cartoon again, I could reclaim it, and properly store it where it belongs in my mental file cabinet: in "kindergarten cartoons," instead of "horror movies never to be seen again." My fear, however was that it was an obscure movie clip that could never be found again, especially with my limited knowledge and memory of it. It was black and white, and featured dancing skeletons.
THAT PROVED TO BE ALL I NEEDED! As it turns out, the short is actually called The Skeleton Dance, and is a 1929 Disney clip.
So I watched it. I re-filed. I'm okay now. The trauma is over.
But I'm not going to Lie, Mrs. Karhough, I had to watch it with the lights on.
Boo,
Big Kindergartener
You were a very memorable kindergarten teacher. Though not exactly Froebel in your teaching methods, a lot of little things we did in class stay with me as big memories. It occurred to me today that I may remember things incorrectly because of my five year old perception at the time I attended your classroom.
For example, skeletons tend to freak me out.(No, I'm not in a profession that requires I be in close proximity to skeletons. I'm just referring to models at school or in the chiropractor's office.) Not because they were once a person, I'm okay with that, and surprisingly, skulls are just fine with me. Its when they are on a whole skeleton that tend to make me crazy. Its because I'm always secretly waiting for them to walk or dance!
I remember vividly where this comes from. In your class on Halloween, we all dressed in our costumes and paraded around the school. Then, after all of the mommies and daddies went home, we sat in the circle to read a Halloween book, and then we got snacks. Because it was Halloween, you explained, we were going to have a special treat during snack, a cute Halloween cartoon that you loved when you were a kid!
For the next five minutes, I hardly breathed, because I was too scared. These horrible skeletons were dancing and dancing and dancing. This is all I remembered, until today. Sometimes in classrooms, during the years that followed, I would say a quick thank you to God or circumstance that I was not in said class by myself, since there was a skeleton model in it. What a horrible image in my head!
Today, I realized that I'm still afraid of the image, but I don't remember it! I thought rationally that if I could view the cartoon again, I could reclaim it, and properly store it where it belongs in my mental file cabinet: in "kindergarten cartoons," instead of "horror movies never to be seen again." My fear, however was that it was an obscure movie clip that could never be found again, especially with my limited knowledge and memory of it. It was black and white, and featured dancing skeletons.
THAT PROVED TO BE ALL I NEEDED! As it turns out, the short is actually called The Skeleton Dance, and is a 1929 Disney clip.
So I watched it. I re-filed. I'm okay now. The trauma is over.
But I'm not going to Lie, Mrs. Karhough, I had to watch it with the lights on.
Boo,
Big Kindergartener
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Dear Pope Benedict XVI,
Dear Pope Benedict XVI,
First things first: can I call you P? I think that it would do wonders for you image if you didn't mind things like that.
I wanted to write and let you know that not only do I admire your argumentative skills, but also wish to commend you on sticking to your guns, and only acting like you want to apologise.
This seems like the only rational thing to do, and wanted to let you know, just in case you maybe having second thoughts, that the technique you are employing ALWAYS works for me. Sure, you may be the leader of a world wide faith community, and I may be a B- student from Michigan, but I think we have a lot of the same things going: a big mouth, a volatile public, and reasons not to lie.
So you said some things about Muslims. Wait, you didn't even say them. You quoted a really old dead guy who said something about Muslims in the 14th century. People are mad that you said it, and are demanding an apology. That's okay, P, don't sweat it. Just keep doing what you're doing. What you did was great. You said that you were sorry that they were upset, but didn't mention anything about being sorry that you said it. And that's because you are not. We know this.
This is a technique I often find helpful myself. Here is a bit of example dialog from a day at work that I feel will help you relate my situation to yours:
Lisa: did you do the membership filing?
Me:yes
Lisa: I really wish you wouldn't have, because now I have to go back through all of them to make cards
Me: I'm sorry you don't like making cards.
So, P: You didn't accidentally let an archaic quote slip out during a sermon. You weighed your words, did your homework, and let them have it. Now don't back down!
Sincerely (for real!),
An Apology Faker
Note: Here is something to wrap your mind around. People were so outraged by a about Muhammad (in a Danish newspaper that felt their country being threatend by Islamic extremists) that they rioted for days, displaying what the Pope may call "evil and inhuman," because of what they viewed as disrespect for their leader. Once they feel threatend by The Pope, however, they have no problem burning him in effigy.
I know that having an "us," "them" attitude about world events is not productive, or even healthy. Saying simply "they" is a non specific stereotype. And to this, I plea "I'm sorry" in true Pope style.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Dear Jonathan,
Dear Jonathan,
Everyone was so happy when you were born! Your five sisters were so happy to have a little brother, and all of us in the family were buzzing about how your mom finally had a boy! When your family came up to see us the next month, I felt very lucky that I was the only one of the kids that got to hold you, because I was 10, which was a very big deal. You were so small and your fingers were so long! I was scared that I may drop you, but you just looked at me and grinned your Jonathan grin.
When I visited your grandma last fall, I saw from school pictures that you were growing to be a very handsome young man. Now, you have been reduced to a headline.
Two weeks ago, at your sisters wedding, I am told you were charming and polite, as usual. I'm sorry that I was not there. As I look at the invitation now, the air fare doesn't seem to be as unattainable as it had seemed to be a month ago.
I miss you already, Jonathon. We all do. I don't know why you decided to follow the crowd. You knew better than this!
My heart hurts for your Mom and Dad. For your sisters. For you. I know that I should feel consoled that you trusted Jesus, but right now I'm too busy missing you. Good Bye, Jonathan.
You Will Be Missed,
LOVE,
Your Cousin
Note to potential commentors: the word "sorry" is not allowed to appear in any context, language, or order. Thank you.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Dear Hungry Man in Detroit,
Dear Hungry Man in Detroit,
I would like to commend you on your exceedingly effective change collection tactic. Others, with a cup or an outstretched hand, implore the baseball watching masses to give what they will. A passerby can easily dismiss them by simply looking the other way, or internally reasoning that the person wants too much, or that they will use said donation on vice or the like.
You, on the other hand, have honed a technique that could easily take the panhandling profession by storm. Combining a stalker/specificity approach, you were able to squeeze me for every last dime I had. Literally. Granted, Joe and I together had a grand total of $2.25 (in quarters) to our names, but, after said technique was employed, you walked away a richer man than we.
As a courtesy, I will now clue you in on my side of the transaction, as I’m sure your market research budget is somewhat overdrawn at this juncture. You were effective in acquiring our change because:
1)You were specific. Naming the amount you wanted, 75cents, put things into perspective. I probably had 75 cents, and I could most definitely spare it. It was in no way an unreasonable request, and it made me think that maybe you were going to buy food with it* because I, too, have scrounged for quarters (in my car seats) in order to buy two sliders.
2)You put forth effort. Though I did not think for one second that you actually cared about the outcome of the baseball game, your inquiry instantly made you a person. This directly combated my former change keeping maneuver, that operated on the premise that those without a face or voice could be ignored, because I could quickly forget about them. Once someone is a person, I cannot imagine him or her away, like we selfish suburbanites often do. Instead, I must internalize you as a fellow human, just like me, in need, and not a “huddled mass” that can easily be overlooked.
3)You were semi scary in a passive way. Walking towards us from across the street showed that you were speaking only to us. This made us realize early on that we could not rely on fellow sidewalk travelers to address your concerns. Beyond that, your dedication to imploring us past our initial shoulder shrugging, and the adjustment of your gait to match ours signaled that you might have actually got in the truck and come home with us if we did not find anything to give you right then.
4)You made me think about you. Evidence: this letter.
Good luck in future endeavors.
Sincerely,
Tigers Fan
P.S. Next game, as part of my own market research, I’m going to make you a sack lunch. Do you want strawberry or grape jelly?
*Foot note to point #1: I, in no way, care what you did with the aforementioned trifle. Unlike some people that I have recently spoken with, I don’t have a problem feeding whatever it is that is keeping you warm or alive. I am not your judge, and cannot imagine ever being that condescending.
I would like to commend you on your exceedingly effective change collection tactic. Others, with a cup or an outstretched hand, implore the baseball watching masses to give what they will. A passerby can easily dismiss them by simply looking the other way, or internally reasoning that the person wants too much, or that they will use said donation on vice or the like.
You, on the other hand, have honed a technique that could easily take the panhandling profession by storm. Combining a stalker/specificity approach, you were able to squeeze me for every last dime I had. Literally. Granted, Joe and I together had a grand total of $2.25 (in quarters) to our names, but, after said technique was employed, you walked away a richer man than we.
As a courtesy, I will now clue you in on my side of the transaction, as I’m sure your market research budget is somewhat overdrawn at this juncture. You were effective in acquiring our change because:
1)You were specific. Naming the amount you wanted, 75cents, put things into perspective. I probably had 75 cents, and I could most definitely spare it. It was in no way an unreasonable request, and it made me think that maybe you were going to buy food with it* because I, too, have scrounged for quarters (in my car seats) in order to buy two sliders.
2)You put forth effort. Though I did not think for one second that you actually cared about the outcome of the baseball game, your inquiry instantly made you a person. This directly combated my former change keeping maneuver, that operated on the premise that those without a face or voice could be ignored, because I could quickly forget about them. Once someone is a person, I cannot imagine him or her away, like we selfish suburbanites often do. Instead, I must internalize you as a fellow human, just like me, in need, and not a “huddled mass” that can easily be overlooked.
3)You were semi scary in a passive way. Walking towards us from across the street showed that you were speaking only to us. This made us realize early on that we could not rely on fellow sidewalk travelers to address your concerns. Beyond that, your dedication to imploring us past our initial shoulder shrugging, and the adjustment of your gait to match ours signaled that you might have actually got in the truck and come home with us if we did not find anything to give you right then.
4)You made me think about you. Evidence: this letter.
Good luck in future endeavors.
Sincerely,
Tigers Fan
P.S. Next game, as part of my own market research, I’m going to make you a sack lunch. Do you want strawberry or grape jelly?
*Foot note to point #1: I, in no way, care what you did with the aforementioned trifle. Unlike some people that I have recently spoken with, I don’t have a problem feeding whatever it is that is keeping you warm or alive. I am not your judge, and cannot imagine ever being that condescending.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Dear Grandma-
Dear Grandma-
Thank you for inviting me to your Mother's Day banquet. I know this note is a little late, but I did not want to send it along without photos. I originally was hesitant about attending because I thought it would be a room full of women that I didn't know singing juvenile Sunday school songs and eating mediocre catered roast beef. Instead, it was a room full of wonderful women I didn't know singing charmingly juvenile Sunday school songs and eating mediocre catered pork chops. It was great! Thank you for being the ultimate matriarch.
Love,
Your granddaughter
P.S. I promise I will get baptized. Sometime soon. Okay, well, before the rapture.
Thank you for inviting me to your Mother's Day banquet. I know this note is a little late, but I did not want to send it along without photos. I originally was hesitant about attending because I thought it would be a room full of women that I didn't know singing juvenile Sunday school songs and eating mediocre catered roast beef. Instead, it was a room full of wonderful women I didn't know singing charmingly juvenile Sunday school songs and eating mediocre catered pork chops. It was great! Thank you for being the ultimate matriarch.
Love,
Your granddaughter
P.S. I promise I will get baptized. Sometime soon. Okay, well, before the rapture.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Dear tina fabulous,
Dear tina fabulous,
This is an official statement to let you know that, without being overly weird in an I-don't-know-you-but-you-are-sending-me-fan-mail way that HOLY CRAP, I absolutely agree with your comment on partofthestory blog today. Agree is sort of an understatement, since upon reading it I smiled until my face hurt and pumped my fist in the air like a 90's talk show viewer. I tend to read running debates such as that one as both entertainment and eye rolling fodder. I hesitate to comment on their utter uselessness, however, because I don't want my objection to be confused with misunderstanding. I understand fully, but care not. The other (more sinister, and I'm afraid more accurate) reason that I do not throw my comments in is that I had not, as of yesterday, found the words that precisely articulate my thoughts. Today, I found them: "one more unimportant piece of stupidness that gets thrown into the mix as a means of distraction."
Kudos!
General Appreciator
(of Verbal Venom)
*Note: The crux of Carson's point has not been lost on me. Of course, theatric laden testimonies on the 700 club are asinine. Got it.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Yo Hippiejoe83,
Yo Hippiejoe83,
WORD UP TO MY MAIN SQUEEZE, 83-4-LIFE!
-Your Boo
hippiejoe83: but i wouldnt mind a "shout out"
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