In an open letter to the woman who complained about her husband twice while she was working and I was a customer in her store,

“I wonder if you would have cut my fabric faster if you weren’t so determined to make your husband sound like an animal. I also wonder if you would be at home cutting your husband if you weren’t at work complaining about him. So I smiled an nodded….”

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In an open letter to the woman unabashedly coughing,

“I suppose I should thank you. The suggestion of phlegm in your plentiful uncovered coughs made me stop eating immediately. You are a diet plan.”

In an open letter to the song Jingle Bell Rock,

“I really hope that someone’s sexy times name for their special someone is ‘Jinglehorse.’ You have planted this desire in my heart.”

In an open letter to the middle aged woman who aggressively told me that she was going to take me home with her,

“Thank you for showing me that this sort of thing can be just as terrifying coming from a woman as it is coming from a man.”

 

In an open letter to Neil Diamond singing Sleigh Ride,

“Yes.”

In an open letter to the high school teacher who once said to/asked of me, “You don’t do that Lil’ Kim stuff, do you?”

“Gross. I think that you were making an allusion to the rumor circulating during that time that Lil’ Kim had her stomach pumped for, uh, let’s just say, big girl reasons. But, I could be wrong; I’ve never been great at putting together these sorts of things. What I do know is that your question made me sweat. A lot. As in more than usual. And during those particular years, I was a perpetual sweaty mess. Again, gross.”

In an open letter to the man who sat beside me/almost atop me on the plane,

“I have to tell you, I didn’t see it coming. You looked so neutrally friendly as you approached our row. Then you proceeded to take up about one quarter of my seat, not because your size required it, but because… Well, only you can answer that one. I should have just said something. But the longer we sat, the more uncomfortable I became. I didn’t even want to move because I knew that you would feel my every movement since the entire length of my leg from hip to knee was in full contact with your leg. I thought about putting my hand on your knee since it was in my seat, but I thought better of it. I even considered resting my head on your shoulder, but that may have been biting off more than I could chew. I even thought about trying to relax into the bodily contact, try to enjoy it, but I just couldn’t….”

In an open letter to the airport personnel manning the body scanner,

“You looked surprised when I didn’t keep walking, encouraging me with a bewildered, ‘Come on, baby.’ But, since you were touching me, I thought you were telling me I needed to stop….”

In an open letter to the man on the plane who, without invitation, started to help me remove my jacket,

“Thank you? I guess I looked like I was having a hard time?”

In an open letter to the feelings unleashed by prematurely listening to Harry Connick Jr. doing Christmas songs,

“Even I am at a loss for words right now, but I have to tell you that wondering whether this music is regularly used to seduce during the holiday season is, well, a little different. As for the thought, ‘this is the kind of music that makes you feel up for anything if it comes with a little foxtrot and a York Peppermint Patty….’ I just don’t know.”