In an open letter to Michael MacDonald,

“Today I tried to describe your voice to my son. I told him that you sound like warm, crumbly, buttery cookies. I successfully managed not to drool. However, he still looked quite horrified. I suppose that the pleasure of your voice is the sort of thing a Mama has got to enjoy on her own….”

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In an open letter to the bicyclist who rode down the street with a swath of exposed buttocks,

“I suppose that this is no one’s fault, specifically, but I have been unable to stop thinking about cinnamon rolls since I saw you pedaling the other day. You see, the soft-looking flesh that I saw reminded me of this particular morning treat. It was like the second dough rising when the smooth buns rise gently above the lip of the pan. I can’t be the only one who thought this. You should protect yourself, lest someone tries to sprinkle you with cinnamon or squirt you with glaze….”

In an open letter to her body,

“You woke me up cause you’re hungry? At two-o-clock in the morning? Couldn’t you just have cannibalized some thigh meat or something? Not nice, body, not nice.”

In an open letter to the computer that turns on inconsistently,

“I thought you ate my novel. I’m glad that you didn’t eat my novel. Thanks for the chance to back it up!”

In an open letter to the gentleman with whom I had an involved, ranging conversation this afternoon,

“Because I am who I am, I am willing to remain in a conversation with anyone who brings up Jonathan Edwards. However, I could never have imagined that you would also bring up Greek communists during World War II and the exile that followed, John Engler v. Jennifer Granholm, mental health and the emergency room, Jesse Jackson, Uzbekistan, and Kwame Kilpatrick and his bodyguards. All of this started because you liked my boots. Well done.”

I open letter to the barista who is successfully working that whole Minnie Mouse vibe,

“How do you do it?”

In an open letter to her arms,

“Because I need to be decently groomed tomorrow, you are going to get a workout tonight. I will be as quick as I can with the flat iron, but you know how much hair is up there. You can do this.”

In an open letter to her son,

“The only reason that you’re getting the better looking of the two quesadillas, the one that is perfectly golden, the one that is melted to perfection, is that I measured out the cheese on the other quesadilla, and, well, Mama’s got goals.

In an open letter to herself,

“It is quite disturbing that you read ‘Let Pitbull Jump You in the Gym,’ when really what the page said was, ‘Let Pitbull Pump You Up for the Gym.’ However, it is more disturbing that you read it again. That’s the kind of thing you should just see and look away….”

In an open letter to the ideas that fluttered into my mind when I was driving and unable to jot them down,

“Nobody likes a tease.”