Open Letters:

From Me to Some of Everyone

In an open letter to her mind as she attempts to go to sleep,

“Please leave Johnny Cash out of this….”

In an open letter to the man who looked at my breasts hungrily, then made direct eye contact with me,

“I have never experienced a stare like that. You looked like you wanted to eat my bosom, literally, on a plate with fork and knife. Sir, you frightened me. I wanted to cradle my lady shelf in my arms. I felt a need to protect them. That and to walk faster.”

In an open letter to Bill Withers,

“Suppose that I Googled you so that I could look at photographs of you as a young man. I mean, you know, hypothetically. Had this happened, I would think about how that body makes me want to eat beans and cornbread, even though I eat my beans with rice. You’d make me want to branch out. Your body would make me want to feed my soul.”

In an open letter to anyone who saw me in Qdoba earlier this week arching my back in a strange fashion,

“I know that I am responsible for my own actions, but it was the guy in the Qdoba who was hunched over his food with great commitment that made me contort myself. His daring curvature made me wonder if my body was capable of that range of vertebrate motion. Alas, it is not….”

In an open letter to the Internet,

“I appreciate you so much. Especially on days when I ask you to show me purple bathrooms and you do exactly that. Thank you.”

In an open letter to herself,

“Um, so here’s the thing…if you have a travel pan of watercolors in the car, you do not also get to be exasperated by the many markers and pens that your son has in the car.”

In an open letter to Twitter,

“You do not bring out the best in me. Thankfully, this manifests itself more in the things that I read than in the things I say.”

In an open letter to Spike Lee,

“Watching your documentary about Hurricane Katrina has ruined my end-of-the-world, time-travel, Lyndon-Johnson-and-I-are-the-only-people-left-together-in-an-empty-airport scene that I like to imagine when I want to go to sleep. Now, sometimes when I try to conjure my very special, yet strangely chaste, LBJ lullaby, a good percentage of the time, I can only see the human suffering that occurred in the Superdome. I’m glad I watched the documentary, but now what am I supposed to do when I want to drift quickly into the embrace of slumber?”


In an open letter to the man who was clearly captivated by my ample bosom,

“So, the thing is that if you openly stare at my breasts while descending the stairs, it makes it very hard for me to resist wanting to see you tumble down said stairs. I want to be better than that. As a result, I kindly ask you to refrain from this open-mouthed gaping.”

In an open letter to Bobby Jindal,

“I don’t mean to, but I keep going back to Twitter solely to laugh at you. I want to be better than this.”