Recently in Letters Category

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Date: Thu, 1 May 2008 07:51:46
From: [name deleted]
Subject: Thurdsday
To: [name deleted]
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Dear Shep Collidus,

I can't take this anymore. I am writing to tell you that if there is no packet in my P.O. Box this afternoon, I might do something dramatic. Do you think that people who fart on subways do it on purpose...as something "dramatic"? Because that's kind of along the lines of what I was thinking. How's your day?

Back to the Box for a mo'. I think I'll be checking it sometime around 2ish/3ish or something like that. Sound good? I'll call you on all the fancy numbers you have. We can either scream and/or cry together...

Dear David Blaine,

Gettin' excited about your appearance on "Oprah" today? It's gonna be crazy! Holding your breath for more than 16 minutes?! Wowzers. You're so tough. Really. I used to practice holding my breath in the bathtub all the time. It's totally hard. I saw that movie The Big Blue and decided to be a free diver and a marine biologist when I grew up. The bathtub became my Olympic pool training facility. I'd put my watch on the toilet, shove my Sea Babies and their flower sponge boats aside, and fully submerge myself as soon as the glove of the red Mickey hand hit the big number 12 on my Official Disneyland Timepiece. The key is to let little bubbles of air escape every 10 seconds or so. I'm sure you know this already. Anyway, my best time was 1 minute 58 seconds, and when I couldn't top that time, I knew that I probably didn't have a future in the world of free diving (or as the wife of Jean Marc Barr, mon amour). Luckily, I saw Young Guns II a few months later and decided that being an outlaw was much more suitable for my desert location...as was Balthazar Getty post-Lord of the Flies.

Anyway, good luck! So, um, when are you going to get back to the ol' abracadabra?

Dear Random Woman Who Sprayed Perfume On Me at Banana Republic,

Although I was seething with anger at the time due to your utter disregard for anyone within 10 inches of your spray attack in the corner nearest to the cash wrap, I must apologize and take back the dirty look I shot you when I was hit with the blunt force of your spray on the entire left side of my body. Woman, I hate to admit this, but I smell GOOD. I don't know what the heck was in that pocket atomizer you were brandishing, but it suits me like a puffy sleeved blouse and a pair of limited edition "Holly" flats stamped with the name Salvatore Ferragamo on the sole. It's now four hours later, and my left arm scent is intoxicating. I can't stop sniffing myself, and I don't care who notices. A hint of musk, pink peppercorn, and what is that sweetness...cinnamon? Nutmeg? Candied orange? Chai tea? WHAT IS IT, LADY?? I have to know. I have to wear this on my person every single day for the rest of my life.

Pretty Lady with the Brown Bob and Tribal Printed Blouse, if you're reading this right now, email me. Tell me what magical concoction you were hiding in that purse. What oh what is this indecipherable potion that conjures images of Italian terraces, mopeds on cobblestones, a bushel of lollipops, lazy cats in fading sunshine, striped scarves, and a lost Tamara de Lempicka painting? I will not rest until I find out. Or until I find you...

Signed,

Girl in the White Ruffled Blouse, Blue Pinafore Dress, Tatty Brown 1970's Loafers, and one Parrot Made Out of New Mexican Stone Hanging on a Black Cord Around Her Neck

p.s. Man, I hope I'm worthy of this scent.
p.p.s. I mean, I hope I can afford it.

-----Original Message-----
From: [name deleted]
Sent: Thursday, May 03, 2007 3:01 PM
To: [name deleted]
Subject: Thursday

Enid,

I’m so bored. This Visa thing is killing me. It’s so boring. I feel like taking all of my clothes off right now and just losing it. We saw “Waitress” last night. It was wonderful. Keri Russell is so freaking adorable and charming and sweet. I love her.

Seriously, I’m so bored. I’m thinking about things to do to brighten up the day and I just made plans in my mind to go to William-Sonoma at the Time Warner Center. That’s disgustiing.

-----Original Message-----
From: [name deleted]
Sent: Thursday, May 03, 2007 3:13 PM
To: [name deleted]
Subject: RE: Thursday

Dexter Holliday, where have you been?!

Listen, don’t go to Williams-Sonoma in your mind, pick up your bo-bo and actually go. Go look at the Le Creuset and have an olive oil sample. Tell BossLady you’re feeling dizzy and need some fresh air.

We saw Bjork last night. Holy Mizzy Mother of Maude. It was INSANE. We were 6 rows from the stage at Radio City, and if there had been an audience of just me, I could have had a candid conversation with Bjork from my seat to her mic. Stymie was there with his friend Costanzo. They danced in their seats and were, thus, sweaty. I kind of just bounced around.

OMG, ANTONY (without his Johnsons) SANG!!!!! He sang and sang and then he started jumping up and down while he was singing in little fits of happy triumph. It made me cry a little. I also cried during "Venus as a Boy" because Bjorkle (my new name for her because we're really close) sang it virtually acapella and did that crazy thing with her voice and even though the mic was several inches away from her face we could hear her screams without it. She wore metallic pants and this red, billowy dress and I love her face. Check out some pics on Brooklyn Vegan.

Geez, Dex, I could totally use a break right now. Let’s go to Rizzoli and browse through the Biography section!!! I’m craving popcorn, too.

Peaches and steam,

Valhalia Plume

Dear Jonas Timple,

Where are you when I need you?? I'll get right to it. The treatment I get from the women on this floor is driving me bat-guano insane. I just don’t understand WHAT I’ve done to be treated so rudely. If anything, perhaps I’ve been too shy. Maybe I should have dropped off a tin of cookies at each of their desks with a friendly note for the holiday season (even if I know they'd never touch them). Perhaps I could have shown more chutzpah when I first started working here by walking up to each of their cubicles, extending my right hand, and welcoming myself to their floor on their lazy behalf. Or maybe I could smile more when I type.

Whatever the case, I'm about to lose my Cheese Whiz, and I need your help...

----------Original Message----------
From: [name deleted]
Sent: Thursday, December 21, 2006 9:32 a.m.
To: [name deleted]
Subject: Goodbye, Mr. Chips

Good morning Toby Shlameel,

I can’t believe today is your last day. In the words of our favorite band Weezer, who we used to listen to together on a concrete bench, side by side, pressing play on our Discmans at the exact same moment, giving each other the thumbs up at the chorus, or even mouthing the words to each other playfully while sipping an iced beverage from the local Starbucks (I love your hair): “Say it Ain’t So”!!!!!

Please, Tobes, for the love of the baby Jesus; I NEED you to say it ain’t sooo oh whoa oh woe.

What will I do at 9:32 every morning and 3:56 every afternoon when I don’t get to hear your voice? I can’t imagine a world where there are no updates about your ridiculous co-worker, Sharmaine Klytamestra St. Pierre-on-Sprey. I guess I’ll just have to make up stories in my head. I don’t even know what she looks like, Toby. WHY ARE YOU LEAVING ME??

So, cheers and all that. To your new job and your new life or whatever. Midtown is stupid. I hope you know that. It’s stupid and it smells like feet and metal. You’ve had it good over here. Just because people don’t talk to you and think you’re invisible and stuff doesn’t mean that you’re not going to be missed. I happen to know of one person who will shed tears over the absence of your presence. Speaking of which, did Pinky from the mailroom say goodbye to you yet?

Yeah, so MIDtown. Human Resources, right? Sounds like a step up for you. That’s nice. You’re moving on up to a life of health insurance and extra cash for burritos from Chipotle instead of those cheap sandwiches you usually get from the deli down the street. You’re selling out is what you’re doing. But that’s fine. Gotta do it someday, right? I remember the moment I knew I had sold my soul to the Man. You called me up that day to welcome me to the company. When I saw your name flash across my phone, it brought sunshine into my cubicle and silenced the humming from the fluorescent lights above my head. I knew right then that life in this place was special.

When I hung up, though, I sensed how far away you were. If I can’t have you near, NOBODY can. I mean, not, um the people HERE. Since you’re leaving. THESE people can’t have you. Because you’ll be at another place with other people. So those people WILL get to have you. Near. To them. Whatever, Toby, you get what I’m saying. Don’t leave me, T-Bone.

Au revoir. Adios. Domo Arrigato, Mr. Roboto and all that jazz! I guess I’ll just make friends with someone else and call them everyday to talk about nothing. Or maybe I’ll just do my work. OMG. I just realized how much work I have to do. I’ve gotta go. Psych! Gotcha! Call me?

Ok ok ok. Seriously. Goodbye Toby S. It’s been great working with you. I’ll never forget it, and I EXPECT you to write to me from your new email address over at the new place you’ll be spreading your newness all over. I have to go the bathroom.

Peace out,

Leisel Shlamozzle

----------Original Message----------
From: [name deleted]
Sent: Thursday, December 21, 2006 9:56 a.m.
To: [name deleted]
Subject: RE: Goodbye, Mr. Chips

Oh, Mandy Fellows. Where do I begin?

I’d like to start by reminding you that people like working with me. You know! You’ve worked with me. You’ve worked with people who’ve worked with me. I’m the guy you like working with. I’m equal parts funny and hard-working. If you’re working with me, you can expect a SERIOUSLY FUNNY joke or two about getting effed by the Man, while knowing that you won’t be saddled with work that I didn’t do. It’s the best of both worlds really. I am the best of both worlds.

Yet, these people are impermeable. No amount of funny or hard work can make them like, nay, freaking SEE me. I feel like Remains of the Day here, people.

So, it is with heart light as a feather and messenger bag filled with bottles of wine that were a gift from a vendor (hey, nobody took them) that I bid this brainless bone-dry snippy little den of Bizitches “Adieu.”

You know, I do give a lot of latitude for the differences in people; and I realize that not everyone is going to think I’m the bee’s knees, but…I know what goes on here. It’s not so freaking consuming that you can’t say “Hi,” “Good morning,” or “I’m taking your stapler and I’m never giving it back.” I’ve concluded that these guys aren’t overworked, they’re not overly focused, they’re not just dry – they’re snobs. They’re a bunch of trust fund kids who studied art history and interior design. I could go on about why that’s awful, but I’m leaving and I don’t have to care anymore. I’ll just say that, one day, when they look around and see that nothing in their life is actually interesting and all of their friends are boring and bored just like them, I hope they realize that it’s their faults. And, then I hope their ankles crack under the weight of their enormous asses. Their asses aren’t enormous right now, that’s just something else that I’m hoping for their futures.

And, we’ll always be together, Mandy Pandy. Soon, a new pattern of correspondence will form. Don’t you worry.

Farewell,

Ignatius Allen

----------Original Message----------
From: [name deleted]
Sent: Friday, December 08, 2006 9:53 a.m.
To: [name deleted]
Subject: Friday Morning

Dear Meadow Renee Castiglione,

It was very funny seeing our exchange on Verbose Coma. I’m seeing a new regular feature in the blog’s future, as well as an outlet for the pain of indignities suffered at the hands of the MAN. I suggested to someone that they put a LoJack on my boss’ ankle if they expected me to know where she was all of the time. It felt cleansing to say that.

No Exit,

Jason Yu

----------Original Message----------
From: [name deleted]
Sent: Thursday, December 07, 2006 11:50 a.m.
To: [name deleted]
Subject: What's Anthony Doing Up In Here?

Dear Trevor Degustus,

For the past few months I have worked here in the belly of a department filled with women who will not speak to me or even look in my direction when they’re inches away. I have silently dealt with their rather rude decision to play Top 40 Pop Music of Then and Now loudly on a daily basis. I guess their bosses don’t care or are away, but whatever the case, the music is NOT appropriate. It’s so loud that head Red Hot Chili Pepper, one Anthony Kiedis, is close enough to hug me. Seriously. If you’re going to play loud music, pick Chet Baker. Pick Ella. Charlie Paker. Louis Armstrong. Pick early Bob Dylan for goodness sake.

But a megamix (I have yet to mention that they play the EXACT SAME CD MEGAMIX OVER AND OVER) comprised of the complete Chili Peppers back catalogue, every raucous Guns n’ Roses song ever written, Coldplay on repeat, and a selection of Hits from the 80’s! played at a loud volume is not what clients probably want to listen to. It’s just inappropriate. You know what? I’m down with them playing the music that excites them (go ahead and blow out your ear drums with the tenderfooted Jack Johnson, Ladies!), but they should play it with their headphones on. Because I don’t want to hear it anymore. I CAN’T LISTEN TO COLDPLAY ANYMORE. And haven't we all grown tired of "99 Luftballons" by now? Call me a square, a snob, a party poopster, a dill pickle, what have you…I just don’t think it’s the right environment to be blasting squealing guitars and driving drum solos.

Don’t get me wrong, though, Trevor, I love the Peppers and dear ol' Axl. I just don’t want to hang out with the boys up here at my desk, y’know?

Welcome to the jungle, indeed.

Regards,

Shandi Toma

----------Original Message----------
From: [name deleted]
Sent: Thursday, December 07, 2006 12:01 p.m.
To: [name deleted]
Subject: RE: What's Anthony Doing Up In Here?

Dear Baroness Heidi “Dill Pickle” Nixon,

I feel for you. Might I suggest fighting fire with, shall we say…fire? I’m suggesting that you set their desks on fire.

Yours,

Lesley Minnow