Hello Sweetie…

Hello Sweetie,

I’m sure I shouldn’t be calling you that anymore. Breaking someone’s heart negates the privilege for the use of sweet nicknames, but I called you that more often than I called you by your name. Your name feels foreign to me, like I’m not supposed to say it. No one can know the Doctor’s name…Spoilers, I know it, but I’m afraid saying it will allow the memories I have so carefully tied with a bow in the recesses of my mind, blissfully receding more and more by the day, will come leaking through like the bottom of my old dishwasher. I’m so sorry, Sweetie; I’m so sorry I had to break your heart.

You always had this unadulterated passion for me. Sometimes it came off as harsh, sometimes so loving it shook me, and sometimes it was exactly as it should have been. Lying down next to me, smiling with your whole face, touching my cheek lightly with your large hands so as not to wake me from my light slumber, saying softly, “I love you, Baby.” Spoilers…I was awake, and I am so glad. That’s the memory of us I hold in my head, not you telling me you wish you had never served me at that bar, seen my smile at you, asked for my phone number; you told me you hope I hurt forever. And so it is the memory of your crooked smiling dimpled face that I stowed away to revisit like old birthday cards and photos from high school; they all have their place, and so do you. I wish I had not had to file you with those past things, but I think I did it a long time ago. Sweetie, I think I fell out of love a long time ago.

I never had the passion you had for me. I tried I really did; I tried with everything I am. 5 months, 5 pounds, 5 buckets filled with nights I don’t know why I spent crying. That’s something I never told you; I really cried all the time, and I almost never knew why. Sure, we had our discrepancies and our disagreements and our disruptions in the happiness we had created; those were the obvious roots of my upset. However, there were times I would get into my car to drive myself home on the deserted roads of the nighttime, filled only with cold and wind and police sirens, that I would spend in blinding salty tears until I walked through my door. Those nights, Sweetie, I worried about myself, and one should never know why they’re worrying about themselves.

Looking back now, I think I had realized I didn’t want the house in Somerville or the cats or the constant fear of upsetting you for the rest of my life. I realized I didn’t want to force you to have children; I knew you never really liked the idea of another tiny person being dependent on you, and you being dependent on them to let you live your own life. It was you calling it your own life that worried me; I wanted it to be “our life,” “our family’s life,” and that should be automatic. When I realized you had a life planned for us that I was neither ready for nor did I really agree on the vision, I started to go home crying silently to myself. When I realized, Sweetie, that you had an inherent passion for me, I realized that’s something I don’t think I ever had.

All the things I screamed at you in anger, all those little things that bothered me, you keep asking me why I didn’t talk with you about them before leaving you. I would have endured every one of those little things until the day I died if I loved you the way you loved me. But Sweetie, and please forgive me, I did not love you the way you loved me; I’m not sure I ever did. The neglecting me, the harsh way you spoke to me, the inherent lack of trust, the distance you created with my family, all of it would have made so little difference if I had the fire in my belly for you that you had for me. That is precisely why I will never tell you that it really is your fault I broke it off. You would try to fix it with paying more attention to me, trying to trust me, and trying feebly to become part of my family, and “fixing” those things wouldn’t have repaired anything at all. You can’t fix a car’s engine when the car is only a movie prop. I’m not sure that’s something you will ever be able to comprehend, because I tried to spare you that terrible fact: I never loved you in the fashion that you did and the way you needed me to. I told you I fell out of love, I’m not sure I ever really fell in like I should have.

You told me yesterday when we exchanged the things we never thought we would have to give back that I needed to start sticking up for myself, fighting for me, and fighting for the people I love. What you didn’t realize was that breaking your heart was the first thing in a long time I have done to fight for myself. Staying in a relationship without that real sickening, better half, blossoming, heartbreaking and all the same healing type of love is staying in a relationship for that other person who has that real sickening, better half, blossoming, heartbreaking and all the same healing type of love. I would have been staying to keep you happy, and truth be told, I would have done almost anything to keep you happy. I knew how much you loved me, and that is exactly why breaking your fragile heart was nearly more than I could bear. Though I may not have been in love with you, I grew to care for you so much it physically pained me to see you hurting. You keep saying I have been cruel and cold and condescending, but it’s a defense mechanism you see. I won’t pretend I’m not lonely, and because you’re the last one to hold me at night when I was cold or scared, I know my tendency to drift back will only succeed in hurting us both so much more. I promise you, it will be easier to cut myself off from you completely, and when we do speak, for me to show that awful and selfish and cruel side of myself that I only let out for very special occasions. It too is a defense mechanism, but this time for you. Speaking from personal experience, though hatred is exhausting after awhile, it’s easier to bear than heartbreak. Please forgive me, Sweetie, for this was all for the betterment of us both.

Always,

Vienna.

“We’re all stories in the end. Just make it a good one.” – Ninth Doctor (?-2006, “Doctor Who”)

Details and things

Hello all! I don’t know if there are 1 or 101 of “you all,” but thank you for being here! The fact that anyone is reading my “letters” means to world to me. It’s word vomit on a page, but it’s my word vomit on a page. You are making my thoughts valid to more of the word solely by reading, so once again thank you. I know the few letters I have written have been rather sporadic, but thoughts are often in such a fashion and so sorry I’m not sorry. In addition, my sincerest apologies for the hiatus I took over the past month. The holiday season often leads to computer neglect on my part, and that further lead to epistolary neglect. I’ll try not to let it happen again, but no guarantees. That being said, letters are everywhere, as are sporadic thoughts, and because of that, I could never forever neglect my epistolary self. Fear not, readers…or reader (semantics), I’ll never leave you!

Much love and many thanks,
Vienna.

Write a letter of secrets. Don’t send it.

Circa 2008…

~ You are possibly the most irritating person I have ever met. Please leave me alone and don’t talk to me anymore.

~ I love you and I wish I didn’t.

~ I hate who you’ve turned into.

~ Sometimes, you utterly repulse me.

~ I am so proud of you.

~ Thank you for sticking by me for so long.

~ Stop fishing for compliments; you know you’re pretty.

~ Love yourself more; sometimes you make me wonder if you’re going to hurt yourself.

~ I wish we had never fought and I wish you’d just forgive me already.

~ I know you talk about me when I walk past you; stop, you’re a bitch and someone needs to take you off your pedestal.

~ I miss our friendship, and I’m sorry if I ever hurt you.

~ I want to hook up with your brother.

~ I can’t believe you completely ignored me after all I told you, after all that happened, and you knew it would mean something to me; it’s the lowest thing you’ve ever done.

~ We can never be friends like we used to after how you treated me.

~ I hate when you criticize me for the few things I think I can do well.

~ Stop using people; we all know you do it.

~ You are one of the best people I have ever gotten the chance to know; thank you for everything and please don’t ever lose touch or change who you are.

~ No mater what anyone says, I will always be there for you.

~ I know you stole from me; you’re an ass and you should just get up enough balls to admit it to my face.

~ I hate when you call me perfect because I’m not.

~ You’re such a phony bastard; get over yourself.

~ You think you’re gorgeous; you’re not, in fact, many people think you’re pretty ugly.

~ You always put me into a good mood; you are a beautiful, amazing person
and I love you.

~ Let go of who I was when I was younger and see that I’m way different and
I worked my ass off to be this way.

~ I never meant to hurt you so badly, but you never should have dumped this much on me because I really cared about you.

~ I’ve always loved you.

~ You are one of the most amazing people I have ever known and I will always love you.

~ You are one of the most amazing people I have ever known and I will always love you.

~ Fuck you.

~ You’re a great friend, but if you hurt her, I’ll kill you.

~ I wish you looked at me instead of through me.

~ I miss you more than you will ever know.

~ I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone.

~ You are beautiful, but I wish you saw it too.

~ I hate the way you treated him; it almost made me not want to be your friend anymore.

~ You’re my sister.

~ Saying you love me and then taking it back is not leading me on, it’s lying and I can’t see you the same way after you did that to me.

~ I don’t know how I am going to be able to leave you next year.

~ I wish I told you I love you more often.

~ I want to tell you so much, but I honestly don’t know where to start because you may never speak to me again.

~ You may be the single worst thing that’s ever happened to me, even though you were the source of 2 of the happiest instances of my 18 years.

~ I feel isolated in our friendship.

~ I hate the way you make light of my dreams.

Present.

~ I slept with him again after I told you I wouldn’t, and I only don’t tell you because I don’t want you to be disappointed in me.

~ You haven’t changed in the slightest. It’s still all about number one: Y.O.U.

~ You’re actually awful, and I would be able to look past your physical detriments if you weren’t such a horrendous excuse for a human being.

~ Your ignorance about varying sexuality makes you seem all around ignorant about reality in the 21st century.

~ You’re throwing your life away with how you’re living.

~ I’m so proud of you.

~ Not eating is worse than eating a second scoop of ice cream. You do both, and then wonder why I have a poor relationship with food and my body.

~ Your depression scares me, and I would have recommended help had you not told me you were already going.

~ I don’t love you that way anymore, so stop being alouf when we have sex. Friends can have sex, contrary to popular opinion.

~ The way you went about breaking my heart was immature and idiotic. Grow some balls and maybe a conscience and tell me you aren’t ready for the kind of relationship I thought we were in for nearly 2 years. I’m a big girl, I’ll grow beyond that faster than continuously wondering why you did all the things you did.

~ I know you cheated.

~ I cheated.

~ I hear you having sex regularly. Walls are thin. I’m glad you’re happy in your marriage, but lower the volume for all of us.

~ You’re a huge slob.

~ People may see your biting honesty as endearing, but I happen to think you’re just mean spirited and negative.

~ You’re either bipolar or heavily emotionally imbalanced. Please see someone about it before you hurt yourself or someone you care about.

~ Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Walk in on me while dressing a third time and you’re a pervert.

~ I think the best thing for you is to break up with him before you enter into a life you don’t want.

~ You need to let her go; if it’s meant to be, she will come back to you.

~ Stop trying to rekindle a friendship that you spit on.

~ I know enough about you to send you to prison. Stop going after younger girls, and tread lightly.

~ I worry about your health every time you make an excuse to not exercise.

~ I want to be able to get to a point where we can say we love each other and you not feel uncomfortable. We broke up, but I tell my friends I love them all the time. Get over it.

~ What happened to me is not a part of my past that is meant to be “learned from” and “let go.” Saying that to me makes light of it, so please stop.

~ I forgive you only because hating you is exhausting.

~ You’re the best sex I have ever had, and the most bigoted ignoramus I have ever had the chance to know.

~ You’re new girlfriend looks like her mother was from Jersey and her father was a Clydesdale.

~ I would jump in front of a bus for you.

 

Vignettes…

Dear cluster of Blondes in the coffee shop, Just because I know what “inception” means and have a larger bra size than you, does not mean you can insult my choice of movie, clothes, or the fact that my breasts are in fact larger than yours. Also, just because I have headphones in, does not, in fact, mean I cannot hear you…and tights aren’t pants. Sincerely, More self-confident than you.

Dear Gentleman on the bus, I was not in fact winking at you. There was something in my eye. Sometimes that’s actually true. Apologetically, Dry Contacts.

Dear Skinny Legs, Please vacate the last elliptical. You could actually stand to make your ass a little bigger. Just sayin’. Thanks and Love, Too fond of bread and cheese, and you’re on the last machine.

Dear Monday, You’re the friend that nobody likes. Face it and leave us the Hell alone. Sincerely, Dane Cook, Yours Truly, and Anyone else who has ever gone to school.

Dear Academia, why must you destroy my love for you with this absurd amount of work for this week and the next? That’s rude. Sincerely, Living off coffee and grapefruit.

Dear Coffee, I’m sorry I tried to resist you this week. I made 2 hours before I came crawling back. I’ll never do it again. I love you, Dark roast in an IV.

Dear Gym, invest in some ventilation before the exercising students die of heat stroke. Sincerely, Just sweat out 10 more pounds than I wanted.

Dear Every fool in the horror genre, Basements are never a place you should go. Watch some of the stuff in your genre, and you’ll learn fools think the basement is a good place to check on the source of noises, to hide, to follow the creepy weirdo, etc. Sincerely, Concerned people are going to start following your foolish lead.

Dear Ass Hat I used to date, Remember that time you gave me a recurring eye infection that looks like pink eye? I remember that. Spitefully, Hope you get a worse infection.

Dear Clown who pulled the fire alarm a few nights back, I can handle my bottle of white wine and my Jose, but you have 3 beers and it leads to me standing outside in spandex, boots and a winter vest over my night shirt. I’d like you to not do that again while I’m getting ready for bed. Sincerely, Get your shit together before someone calls your mother.

Dear Chippie, At the end of the day, you may be fucking my ex, but he’s still fat and you’re still a child. Sincerely, Looks like I still win the war.

Dear YouTube, I stopped taking Spanish sophomore year of college. Please stop advertising me en espanol. Sincerely, I feel dumber that I can no longer understand.

Dear Gym, Instead of visiting you this afternoon, I bought two bottles of wine to kill my liver, cigars to kill my lungs, and frozen yogurt to go straight to my ass. Sincerely, Drunk, Fat & Happy.

Dear Growing Ass, I’m proud of you and my other curves, but I need to fit into my pants. Sincerely, Not about to buy new pants.

Dear Cape Tourists, No, I don’t think you can fit 10 people at that table meant for 3…no, not even if some of you stand…no you can’t stand and eat…nope, still not okay…now you’re just making a mess. Sincerely, Your annoyed waitress.

Dear What Could Have Been

Dear What Could Have Been,

I wasn’t aware I could be so angry, irritated and empathetic at the same time, or that someone with an intelligence such as yours could be the dumbest human being I have ever had the chance to meet. This is no love story, and we didn’t meet by chance when I dropped my books in the hallways of our shared high school because we didn’t share a high school, nor was it when you dropped a drink on me at a frat party at our mutual alma mater because we didn’t have that either. Our meeting and our unconventional relations were planned, though sometimes I think the meeting of kindred souls had to have been destined from the get go. Two people with wits, sex drives, and fire’s like ours had to have a counterpoint in the chaos, and low and behold, an outsider that knew us both saw the matching pieces and soon after the recognition, we collided with full force. However, a surge of energy like that burns out almost as quickly as it’s ignited. Don’t be fooled by the almost tired metaphor; this is no sob story, but I won’t let this tired playlist we’ve found ourselves listening to continue to stay on loop until I’ve said what I need to say. I could have loved you the best you’ve ever seen had you given me the chance.

You sir, are one big damned fool, having the one person who could actually help you out of your destructive cyclical series of relationshits. Who did you introduce to your parents after only one meeting? Me. Who did you secretly text at the New Year’s party when my ass looked better than your cheating ex with whom you were trying to rekindle a flame? Me. Who did you call at night when the next one wouldn’t sleep with you? Me. Who did you subsequently confess filthy desires to? Me. Who’s number did you call when that same lady friend broke it off after you had moved back home, cross country, for her? Mine. Who’s chest did you fall asleep on just a few months ago? Mine. You always seem to come back to me, and yet, you, like so many others, claim you don’t see a future with me beyond what we have now, some odd variant of a friendship bordering on passion whose cup often runneth over. “I don’t want to ruin a friendship for 3 months of dating,” you said frankly to me when I confessed, for the third time, you had spell bound me into dazed affection, questioning your motives if you knew. Sometimes, I wonder how you can be so smart and be such an idiot. The kicker really is that they’re all like me, you admitted that yourself every time. “I think you’d like this one,” you tell me. “She’s kind of like you…” And you aren’t wrong; the women you date are like me: self assured, smart, lovely, sexually driven (well, not many compare to me, but we’ll give you that one), but the one thing they miss is the commitment gene. They all leave you, Cowboy, when will you ever learn? Hell, when will I learn that to question your motives is like starting a rubiks cube; I’ll just confuse myself senseless.

You’re doing it again, you know. This letter is all kinds of disjointed because you actually jumble my brain. You may be a fool, but you make me an even bigger one. I would drive almost an hour in the rain, no poeticism intended because that actually happened, at 1 am after having worked 13 hours just to let you click off the lights and make my body sing. You, cowboy, made me feel the sexiest I have ever felt, if only for those brief fitful periods of passionate idiocy, and here’s another confession, I read you like a book. Your tough bourbon soaked exterior never fooled me, that visible part of you that made it seem like you didn’t care whether or not I sprinted to my car in the sheets of rain and drove home, leaving you to sleep alone, or whether I let myself show my “girl” and slip into slumber with the sound of your breathing and smells of sweat and something else manly but sweet. It never fooled me because you forget that period of time when you first made me fall in love with you, those 3 months after you kissed me in front of your truck when I thought all you wanted was for me to let slip everything I’d let you do to me, when I tried to make myself into the perfect combination of curvaceous female and a sex drive that even rivaled yours all coated in a nonchalant attitude about our forthcoming union. It should have been a straightforward serious of conversations, those nights we talked, but it wasn’t the case. You caught me off guard. You told me about your love of Frank Sinatra, let on how big of a sap you were when it came to your dog, confessed insecurities about ever finding someone to share your life with, and checked on me, remembering things I’d told you. What are you a Martian? Some would say you’re the champion operator, but I just don’t buy it. I’m not that good of a lay that your operation would be this drawn out and complex in nature.

And so in those nights when I knew I should be sleeping, preparing myself for the impending work day and exhausted from the one I had just finished, I chatted with this person I’d only actually met once, a person I knew was notorious for going through women like he went through bottles of Jim Beam. I was toast, and I could not have given two shits if you offered to make me a millionaire. When we did meet, if I could have invented a perfect date, this non date full of unparalleled awkward interludes did it better; you did it better. Been hooked since then. Your fault, but hey, they did warn me, and how could I not fall in? You’re still consistently the best sex I have ever had, and the one person I can pick up a conversation with on a dime. That doesn’t come around as often as it should.

We could have been, and we could have been great. Your parents like me, your friends love me, and your dog cries when I leave. What the piss is wrong with you then? You know I say that with a smile, because as much as I adore you, I often see you being childlike, and your mistakes, shortcomings, and foolish tendencies not things you could totally be culpable of. I take care of you, and I have for 3 years even though I have zero idea how to even define what or who you are. Friend, lover, occasional boyfriend/someone I’ve been seeing/sleeping with. You literally are an enigma, shapes and shades of so many different things you have started your own breed and species and category. You preceded the love of my life and succeeded the worst relationship I ever involved myself in, so what are you? If we’re being honest, Cowboy, I have no fucking idea, but Hell if I don’t love you in the strangest and most indescribable of ways. You sir, the most foolish of the fools, have turned me into a fool too, and I’ll be here for a fellow fool when your most recent “love of your life” leaves you. You know she will as well as I do. Sometimes I think that’s why you seek them, so you can some running back to me, the cycle we’re stuck in the only thing you can ever really love. I’m here, Cowboy, and I’m not going anywhere.

Always,
Vienna

“Boys will be boys, and so will a lot of middle-aged men.” – Kin Hubbard (1868-1930, American journalist and cartoonist)

Dear Lover

Dear Lover,

I used to call you just “love,” but I don’t think you can call how we have been carrying on an extension of love. It isn’t even love adjacent. It’s foolish is what it is. Foolish and filthy, filthy in the best of ways. And the kind of sex I always wanted us to have, but the kind I think you were always afraid of. Afraid of what it would do to the gentle man I fell in love with, afraid because of what happened to me so many years ago, afraid that even if you asked, I would see it as a betrayal of everything you said you would protect me from. This isn’t a wishy-washy teenage love story, and this isn’t a melodramatic plea for you to come back to me. This is a catharsis. A catharsis for me; you just so happen to be the pent up knot that I need to release, so don’t let your vanity tell you I’m still infatuated with you. You aren’t that great if we’re sticking with honesty.

There are a select handful of people other than you and me who know we’ve been “carrying on” is how I phrased it. I refrain from telling others because of the select’s reactions. “Why the hell would you continue to strip nude and embrace the person who made you crudely break your own heart? Why would someone in their right mind the other 99% of the time allow such a farce of a relationship to continue? Why do you still think he loves you when he has found himself most recently tangled in the lithe limbs of a pouty and strikingly lovely younger woman? When you saw him gingerly caress the small of her back, calloused fingers so often burned by cooking oil brush the soft and sweet olive skin peeking, meek and shy, from the tops of her impossibly skinny jeans and bottom of silky top, didn’t that sight sting? Didn’t seeing her laugh when his mouth nearly touched the lobe of her ear flood your insides?” Absolutely, is what I tell them. But will that stop me from sending coy and crass words through the technological highway, debasing myself to being “the other woman,” letting him find his release from hands that should be writing, a mouth that should be defending myself, and a body I should be worshipping before zipping up and leaving? Absolutely not. It’s not a disease, or an addiction, or a compulsion; I can stop at any time. I don’t want to. It’s a comfort really. Having someone that knows my insides, my outsides, my right side as less sensitive than the left, and my round backside as a secret personal favorite piece of myself, that is more an addiction than anything.

Your girl is lovely, Hubbell. That’s what Barbara Streisand said in “The Way We Were,” and I’m agreeing. She really is lovely. My question to you, Lover, is why would you do that? Our biggest problem was your lack luster view on growing old. “I don’t see myself loving you in 5 years…” was what you said to me. What does Chippie think about 5 years? What does she think about 5 months, 5 weeks? Are you going  to leave her to? Does she give two shits? Does she know about me? I ask questions because you never answer them. I figure if I throw out an excess, maybe you’ll fucking just pick one for once, instead of looking at me, stupid and embarrassed at your own voice articulating your thoughts. For once, don’t worry about me and be a man. Tell me what you think. Is she better than I was? Or did you lie to me when you said I was the best you’d ever had? I know one thing; I’m the best you’ll ever get.

I think what I’m really waiting for is for you to realize that’s what I am, the best damn woman you’ll ever get. Sure your Chippie is young, naive, lovely, and I saw in those doe and dewy brown eyes encircled by envied thick dark lashes that she would lie down in front of a passing bus for you, but I know you. I’ve seen you cry when you thought I was dying, gripping my hand in the back of an ambulance; I’m the only one you ever introduced to your mother; saw an amalgamation of dejection and relief when I told you I wasn’t actually pregnant; I know you. You can’t take that away from me, and you can’t pretend that when you roll off of me that you don’t want to curl into the curve of my spine and bury your face in my hair, if I remember correctly, and I do, that was always a favorite for you. Favorite things don’t change that much in the short time since I told you I was not going to put up with only half a person to love me.  You can try to escape the truth all you want, but like I said, I know you, Lover.

Take all the time you need, and just to reiterate, this is not a plea or a disjointed and delusional fantasy that you’ll come back to me after a fit of soul searching, resurgence of smoking and a few too many bottles of overpriced vodka. I know you won’t, and I don’t need someone who needed to come to the realization that he loves me. I equate that with a last resort, and I am no one’s last resort. I guess I wrote this more to me than I did to you. A letter to the person inside me that I forgot about, a relighting of the pilot light in my very core, because though you are the Lover, I am the one who needed to remember how to love.

Always,
Vienna

“There is no disguise which can hide love for long where it exists, or simulate it where it does not.” – Francois de  La Rochefoucauld (1613 – 1680, French writer)

Dear Broston College

Dear Broston College,
I recently read your post on BC’s “HerCampus” web forum on how to impress your “coveted” form after a close friend asked me to write a letter to you upon her reading of the article. I laughed, I cackled, I snorted in my uncontrollable laughter, and then I realized all of this hilarity was in my discomfort and response to being subsequently infuriated with your attitudes. Who exactly do you think you are? “Don’t be awkwardly bad or better then me” at college drinking games, “Wear lots of bright colors,” “Be interested in sports, but don’t talk when I’m watching them,” and “Complement me on my blog and twitter” were some of the obvious points; when I say obvious, I mean expected, but no less appalling; however, there were some out in left field (I made a sports reference, and your appendages didn’t fall off; lesson one, gentlemen.), some points such as “Don’t be a cat person” and “Be a sophomore” … I may not like the feline domesticated pet as much as my barking balls of fur and have aged beyond my control, but really boys? Cats and a maximum 2-3 year age difference will make or break your idea of a woman being ideal? The depth of your personality is hitting tide pool standards more with each second you try to defend that reasoning. You think women should talk when you want them to talk; you want women that look like painted dolls; you want women who fawn over you; you want a women who will drop to their knees. Guess what, we’re going to talk whenever we want to talk and usually more effectively than you (brain ninjas, boys, brain ninjas); we look fucking great 90% of the time (sweatpants, hair tied, chillin’ with no makeup on…Drake thinks so, and he’s visibly more attractive and more successful than you), not to mention dolls are creepy; you don’t deserve fawning, you fool; and if we drop to our knees, it’s on our terms. Some of us actually do like it, myself included, but I will bite you if you make one wrong move, I swear, so watch those hands.

This letter is by no means attacking men; I happen to very much like men. They smell great 90% of the time, they’re warm, many actually do like being the “big spoon,” and they will watch horror movies with me in my own masochistic glee when my girlfriends flee from the television set. I like men; what I do not like, is your typical collegiate pompous bro, much like the “dudes” that make up “Broston College,” the supposed underground society of “coveted” BC males (Hint, you’re not that underground). These boys, yes, you’re boys in long pants, think women like me and those of you reading this (If I have men reading this, that is fabulous, but I feel like you may have turned away a long time ago) are going to willingly follow this 32 point list and eventually hook one of the big fish for our mantle piece, thus fulfilling our life’s goal. Incorrect.

Your article was taken down in its infancy because of responses like the one I tried to write, one whose exact words escape me, but it absolutely included, “Give your fellow “BroDudes” some “no homo” love and hope they return your bizarre affection because you won’t get a lick of it from me or any other intelligent ladies who have mentally ingested this festering turd of an article” as well as a scathing ending having something to do with  fitting description of “Assclown;” I regret none of these rage-filled words, nor my lack of eloquence in expressing them. Sometimes a little colloquial hostility is good for the the soul.

Boys, I know there is no scientific study to prove that you think little of women; there’s a slew of sociological data that draws it back to the patriarchy of the “Maleus Malificarum” days of Salem and the Rise of Experts in the 19th century medical field, but sociology can only go so far. There are also always exceptions. However, it boggles my mind that you think so little of us, that you write us lists: “Do’s and Don’t’s of Impressing a BC Bro,” “75 Reasons why Bitches Should be Silenced” (link to that gem of an article here, also take note I found this link on “Laughnet”: http://laughnet.net/top-75-reasons-why-women-should-not-have-freedom-of-speech-p-254.html), “How to Give Great Head,” and the list of your lists goes on. News Flash “Bros:” We actually have brains. That work. (here’s the kicker) Just like yours. And no, they aren’t located in a jar in the kitchen or in our tits or in our ass, so don’t even try those quips. Not only do they make you sound like teenagers that spend all their time in their basement and looking at so much porn you can’t see, but they are ferociously overused; it’s almost becoming too pathetic to tell you to quit while you’re behind.

I feel like I really didn’t say anything in this letter, but at least you know you can’t get every pretty girl with a few tips on how to make you happy. And you should have sub-titled your list with “A set of rules for the size 2, blonde, rich girl that doesn’t mind my stupidity” because that is who you’re looking for. Not anyone who looks like me, not anyone who thinks like me, and not anyone, above all else, who thinks for herself. Welcome to the real world boys, we outnumber you in the US, Australia, most of South America, half of Africa, nearly all of Europe and half of Asia; that’s a lot of angry women who are not going to give you points for honesty (the final bullet point on the list). Think before you let your fingers do the talking next time.

“I’m not denyin’ that the women are foolish: God Almighty made ‘em to match the men.”  – George Eliot, Adam Bede (aka Marian Evans, 11/1819 – 12/1880, author)

- Vienna Hartwright

What I’m about…

I love words. There’s nothing that lights up my eyes like finding out what a word means (except maybe an unopened bottle of tequila or Moscato…but that’s a whole different blog), nothing that jump starts my brain like stringing together a sentence that may or may not get my point across (there’s a little thrill in that unknown), and nothing that angers me more than someone telling me one of those aforementioned sentences doesn’t make sense…even if they happen to be correct in its lack of grammatical cohesion. I am also angered; angered about a whole lot of different and sometimes meaningless things, and I want to tell the world. Mostly I want to tell the people, or in some cases simply things, that I’m angry and that they are in fact the catalyst for my building rage. All of these things culminate in why I’m starting this…rather strange idea for a blog, that and no one actually write letters anymore. Taking the idea of the “Dear blank, Please blank” site (link here: http://dearblankpleaseblank.com/) and running with it, I’m going to start writing to the people and things and events and groups that, if you will pardon my candour (you’ll be getting a lot of that here), substantially piss me off. Hopefully my chosen outlet for expression will lessen your anger too. If you’re looking for tears, laughs, insightful pauses, and a combination of all of the above, then I’m hoping you’ll enjoy a look into The Epistolary Life with me. I’ll post new letters every Monday.

“Always write angry letters to your enemies. Never mail them.” – James Fallows (b. 8/1949, American poet and journalist)

- Vienna Hartwright

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