Open Letters

Dear Left Calf Muscle: Listen, I’m sorry that I’m making you bike 25 minutes to work each morning, then 25 minutes back home. I know you’d rather sit on the Purple Line and relax. But that’s just how it is going to be. You need to deal with it and move on, and stop cramping up on me just because you’re angry. Yesterday while walking the hall at work, I felt you actually *pop*. I'm no doctor or anything, but I'm pretty sure that's not good. You’re pissed. I get it. But let’s all go back to normal so I can start running and swimming again.

Dear Allergies: I thought we’d covered this already, years ago. You start to act up, I take some Claratin. Repeat for several weeks and we both get along fine. What, suddenly that’s not good enough for you? Now you’re waking me up in the middle of the night? Please, give me a break. I just want to get through the next couple of weeks – is that too much to ask?

Dear Pharmaceutical Companies: How hard is it to make an over the counter allergy pill that works? Seriously. C’mon already. I’m dying here.

Dear People at the Corner Deli Responsible for Stocking the Twix Candy Bars: Can we do something about storing them in a place where they don’t melt? Every time I buy one, I open the wrapper and it’s all brown goo. I have to put it in the freezer for 30 minutes unless I want that shit all up on my grill. Is it too much to ask to enjoy a Twix without getting that shit all over my hands?

Dear Neil Finn: I love you. I am so excited about the new Crowded House album in July I'm ready to piss myself. I love you. Richard and I are really looking forward to seeing you in August (me more so than Richard, but that’s OK). I love you. When you get in town, give me a call and we’ll hang. Did I mention that I love you?

Dear Woman Selling That Awesome Mid-Century Modern Couch on Craigslist: I was the first responder to your ad (you even told me so). You want to sell it, I want to buy it. That simple. Quit messing around and call me back already. I want that fucking couch!!