Open Letters:

From Me to Some of Everyone

In an open letter to the man leaving Meijer’s with whom I made eye contact,

“I was thinking weird, funny thoughts when we looked at each other. I think that you were, too. I was thinking about Bernie Sanders; what were you thinking about?”

In an open letter to YouTube,

“Thank you for showing me all the ladies who have hair like mine and allowing them to share the secrets of their styling.”

In an open letter to the lady who told me she liked my dress,

“Thank you for the compliment. It really made me smile. But what made me laugh was when your husband chimed in and said, ‘If I’d said the same thing to you, she’d beat me up!’ The two of you seem┬álike you know how to have a good time. Good on ya!”

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.”