In an open letter to the documentary on the Roosevelts,

“For someone whose rock stars are presidents, that movie clip of a young Franklin Roosevelt made me want to scream and faint. My mental landscape has been kissed by the glow of his youthful beauty.”

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In an open letter to the police officers I saw just as I drove from New Jersey to New York,

“Your uniforms! You need to let the other people know where you ordered your pants. I saw a number of officers handling something or other and each of them looked good in those pants. Really good. I’m still thinking about it three weeks later good. Nice work.”

In an open letter to herself,

“Finally, you cut your fingernails. They were just in the way. It was fine that way when you were on vacation and doing virtually nothing with your hands, but your non-clipping ways were a ridiculous work move. In a digital world, honey, you need to be able to type!”

In an open letter to herself,

“So, if you look into streaming the new Ken Burns movie about the Roosevelts, I don’t think that the physiological response of a watering mouth can be considered normal by any standards. I don’t even begin to know what this means….”

In an open letter to Phil Collins,

“Your music makes my heart swell with so many feelings. You, sir, transport me back to the longing of the adolescent years. Not the curiosity, that belongs to Prince, but the longing; you are the soundtrack to that awakening….”

In an open letter to the loud world traveler,

“Hey, I know this could be called eavesdropping. But I have to tell you, I never, ever would have noticed how pale and soft you were if you weren’t talking so loudly and with so much disdain and criticism of others for an extended period of time…. Oh! Are you double-jointed at the elbows?”

In an open letter to the man of many hats at the hotel,

“I’m sure you mean well, I guess, but despite my politeness, I will not be calling what appears to be your personal number that you jotted down on the back of your business card. I think that if I do come back to DC that I can manage without any ‘help.’ Thanks for the offer though….”

In an open letter to the lady whose pockets I can see peeking out from the bottom of her cut-off shorts,

“I can see your rump. And I think we are about one half centimeter away from me seeing some of your more gender specific parts.”

In an open letter to the cat caller who tried to shame me this afternoon,

“Contrary to the many things you said toward me as I refused to respond to your yelling, I don’t think that I’m better than other people. I simply don’t respond to cat calls. It’s a personal rule. It doesn’t have anything to do with me being ‘stuck up.’ Also, while you think that I need to think about my stuck up ways and ‘get myself right,” I think you need to think about your cat calling ways and get yourself right….”

In an open letter to the woman with the long weave and exposed buttocks,

” Girl, you remind me of a DJ assault song.”