Dear Ticketmaster.com,
I was pre-ordering my STEVE MILLER BAND (!!!) tickets on your website today and noticed that the words at my "security check" log-in were "president fatality."
Uh... any reason for that?
Just wondering,
Kayla.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Dear High School Crush,
First of all, let me preface this letter by saying: OMG! (Please read that Alicia Silverstone in Clueless style, if, by chance you remember that movie. And why wouldn't you? It was genius.) Okay, OMG! I saw you at Chipotle with some other girl from High School (who I was actually friends with in the 8th grade but we're too cool to speak to each other now) and you look HORRIBLE. I mean, you look the same, which is kind of a compliment so... you know, you're welcome, but gosh! what was I thinking back then?
Okay, I'll tell you exactly what I was thinking. When I was sixteen, I was really into obscurity. I mean like, the weirder the better. I didn't want to listen to any band that played on the radio or watch the movie Titanic (even though there was nothing wrong with it... I saw it some time later,) or vote in the student council elections or do anything else that more than three people were doing. I would purposely search out the most indie-st of indie bands and hurry up and buy their t-shirt and wear it to school before anyone else could ask me if I had their CD. It was my thing. And I was so into you because you were pretty obscure yourself. And I know that everybody had a crush on you, too but you acted like you couldn't give a piss and that was totally righteous to me. I mean, did you brush your hair one time during those four years? Just wondering, you know, because.. it didn't ever look like it. And the suitcase you carried around? A suitcase! instead of a Jansport backpack. What an intrepid idea.
So, okay, I'll admit that it was preeeeeeettttty silly of me to write you that poem for your graduation. Wait. Scratch that. It was pretty awesome of me to write you a poem for your graduation, I just wish the poem would have been better. I was only a sophomore and I was getting just used to my impressive vocabulary so I had to use like, every four-syllable word I could think of. Sorry. Further to my defense, Suzanne made me give you the poem otherwise she was gonna tell you that I spent all of first hour writing it and I just decided that it would better for me to flex nuts and hand it to you then to hide from anyone who knew you after she told you about my raging two-year crush that I spent so much time trying to conceal. (Because, you know... I needed to be obscure.)
But none of that really matters some four years later when I see you at the Chipotle with What's Her Face and you're eating what is most certainly a CARNITAS BURRITO. A.) Shouldn't you be a vegetarian, or something? I thought that all poets/writers/musicians/artists were. B.) You could have made a better choice on your shirt. Like, remember in the Spring of 2001 when I saw you in the hallway and you were wearing a shirt that you had written "SMASH CAPITALISM" on with a Sharpie? I'm pretty sure that pearl snap button down you're sporting is from The Gap. Not that I have anything against The Gap, it's just that I'm certain that YOU did. C.) What are you still doing in town? Shouldn't you be abroad, taking lovers and writing memoirs? I had much bigger plans for you, High School Crush, I really did.
(And the biggest cake-taker of all cake-taking things is the perverted messages you leave my friends on Facebook. Hello. Have you ever heard of a text message? It is the preferred method of communication for booty-calls.)
But anyway, the point of this letter isn't to scathe, I just wanted to know if I could have my poem back, please? (I know you probably have it wedged in your yearbook.) You see, I wrote that poem for someone too obscure for a fast food chain, no matter how noble the attempt of said fast food chain at an edgy aesthetic. I wrote that poem for someone who would one day fall in love with me because I alone knew the lyrics to the Elvis Costello song he had just forgotten. I spent the entire first period (during finals week, mind you) writing an embarrassing, exposing poem for someone who wrote columns in the school newspaper that inspired me to get a tattoo, to ask out that boy who was in my American History class freshman year of college, to perform that ridiculous rap song with Suzanne at the Winter Workshop junior year. I wrote that poem for someone who reminded me of what I imagine Paul Rudd is like in real life, should I have the great fortune to meet him. Not for some el duderino at Chipotle four years later that I would have walked by and not even noticed had it not been for me recognizing ol'What's Her Face from 8th grade Communications class.
I don't really remember too much of the poem... I know it started with some confession about how I loved Fridays because it meant that I got to read your column in the paper, but I'm pretty sure it was better than I credit it. Acutally, now that I think of it, it was probably pretty darn good considering all that time I spent reading obscure poets and essayists. (Don't worry about the spelling of that last word, I already wikipedia'd it. I also wikipedia'd "wikipedia'd" and it turns out that it's not a word, much to my disgruntlement. Four-syllable word!) Anyway, just give it back and I'll hold on to it, just in case Paul Rudd ever decides to visit his hometown and I run into HIM at the Chipotle on 87th street.
Please and thank you,
Kayla
First of all, let me preface this letter by saying: OMG! (Please read that Alicia Silverstone in Clueless style, if, by chance you remember that movie. And why wouldn't you? It was genius.) Okay, OMG! I saw you at Chipotle with some other girl from High School (who I was actually friends with in the 8th grade but we're too cool to speak to each other now) and you look HORRIBLE. I mean, you look the same, which is kind of a compliment so... you know, you're welcome, but gosh! what was I thinking back then?
Okay, I'll tell you exactly what I was thinking. When I was sixteen, I was really into obscurity. I mean like, the weirder the better. I didn't want to listen to any band that played on the radio or watch the movie Titanic (even though there was nothing wrong with it... I saw it some time later,) or vote in the student council elections or do anything else that more than three people were doing. I would purposely search out the most indie-st of indie bands and hurry up and buy their t-shirt and wear it to school before anyone else could ask me if I had their CD. It was my thing. And I was so into you because you were pretty obscure yourself. And I know that everybody had a crush on you, too but you acted like you couldn't give a piss and that was totally righteous to me. I mean, did you brush your hair one time during those four years? Just wondering, you know, because.. it didn't ever look like it. And the suitcase you carried around? A suitcase! instead of a Jansport backpack. What an intrepid idea.
So, okay, I'll admit that it was preeeeeeettttty silly of me to write you that poem for your graduation. Wait. Scratch that. It was pretty awesome of me to write you a poem for your graduation, I just wish the poem would have been better. I was only a sophomore and I was getting just used to my impressive vocabulary so I had to use like, every four-syllable word I could think of. Sorry. Further to my defense, Suzanne made me give you the poem otherwise she was gonna tell you that I spent all of first hour writing it and I just decided that it would better for me to flex nuts and hand it to you then to hide from anyone who knew you after she told you about my raging two-year crush that I spent so much time trying to conceal. (Because, you know... I needed to be obscure.)
But none of that really matters some four years later when I see you at the Chipotle with What's Her Face and you're eating what is most certainly a CARNITAS BURRITO. A.) Shouldn't you be a vegetarian, or something? I thought that all poets/writers/musicians/artists were. B.) You could have made a better choice on your shirt. Like, remember in the Spring of 2001 when I saw you in the hallway and you were wearing a shirt that you had written "SMASH CAPITALISM" on with a Sharpie? I'm pretty sure that pearl snap button down you're sporting is from The Gap. Not that I have anything against The Gap, it's just that I'm certain that YOU did. C.) What are you still doing in town? Shouldn't you be abroad, taking lovers and writing memoirs? I had much bigger plans for you, High School Crush, I really did.
(And the biggest cake-taker of all cake-taking things is the perverted messages you leave my friends on Facebook. Hello. Have you ever heard of a text message? It is the preferred method of communication for booty-calls.)
But anyway, the point of this letter isn't to scathe, I just wanted to know if I could have my poem back, please? (I know you probably have it wedged in your yearbook.) You see, I wrote that poem for someone too obscure for a fast food chain, no matter how noble the attempt of said fast food chain at an edgy aesthetic. I wrote that poem for someone who would one day fall in love with me because I alone knew the lyrics to the Elvis Costello song he had just forgotten. I spent the entire first period (during finals week, mind you) writing an embarrassing, exposing poem for someone who wrote columns in the school newspaper that inspired me to get a tattoo, to ask out that boy who was in my American History class freshman year of college, to perform that ridiculous rap song with Suzanne at the Winter Workshop junior year. I wrote that poem for someone who reminded me of what I imagine Paul Rudd is like in real life, should I have the great fortune to meet him. Not for some el duderino at Chipotle four years later that I would have walked by and not even noticed had it not been for me recognizing ol'What's Her Face from 8th grade Communications class.
I don't really remember too much of the poem... I know it started with some confession about how I loved Fridays because it meant that I got to read your column in the paper, but I'm pretty sure it was better than I credit it. Acutally, now that I think of it, it was probably pretty darn good considering all that time I spent reading obscure poets and essayists. (Don't worry about the spelling of that last word, I already wikipedia'd it. I also wikipedia'd "wikipedia'd" and it turns out that it's not a word, much to my disgruntlement. Four-syllable word!) Anyway, just give it back and I'll hold on to it, just in case Paul Rudd ever decides to visit his hometown and I run into HIM at the Chipotle on 87th street.
Please and thank you,
Kayla
Monday, March 17, 2008
Dear Co-Worker,
I think that it goes without saying that I am not the "ladiest" of ladies. And I'm sure that you've got this all figured out (as dense as you are) already, even though we've only known each other for something like seven weeks. I mean, seriously, I wore an oversized, blue Old Navy sweatshirt to work today which is only different from the sweatshirt I wore to work on Thursday in that the other one was grey. I get that I'm no Carrie Bradshaw or even a Miranda Hobbes so please don't read this letter as though it were the words of a polished, pencil skirt, Cosmopolitan magazine editor, or even subscriber. We're not fooling anybody here, right?
That being said, here's a tip for you to take with a grain of or the entire cardboard cylinder of Epson salt: If you have to tilt your head back until your nose is pointing towards the ceiling to insert whatever snack it is you're eating at a ridiculously rapid pace, you've grossly misunderstood the concept of a bite-sized portion.
Hold on, don't start walking away yet. We both know I didn't get this wonderfully curvaceous physique from *not* knocking down towers of thin mint cookies at a time, so please understand that I probably appreciate all aspects of the eating process as much as you do, although definitely not as noisily or offensively, but whatever. The point is, well, as hard as this is for me to say, you're noisy and offensive. You're a noisy and offensive desk eater and seven weeks is quite enough!
I'm probably a little sensitive, I know. Like, it's probably unreasonable of me to think you inconsiderate for picking the loudest snacks ever. Not just regular crackers, but RICE crackers. Nice touch, because wheat crackers wouldn't have been loud enough. And who doesn't love pistacchios? I know... they're great. But what's even greater is the promising talent you show for cracking them open with your teeth as loudly as you do. I understand that mastication is not generally a silent activity and that my toleration of the sound(s) it creates is probably lower than most, so... you know, whatever. But did you, indeed, have to buy the LARGEST BAG of said noisy foods you could find? Or was that just the largest bag you could fit under/on your desk? (P.S. Thanks for bringing in the Family sized bag of Ruffles and not sharing with ANYONE.)
In case this little memo has been to passive-aggressive for your radar, let me put it to you in a different manner: Would you please stop making so much freaking noise eating? It's bad enough I have to listen to your stupid comments that come right off a NASCAR bumper sticker. You sound like da'gum Dale Gribbel from King of the Hill... except YOU'RE A LADY so I'm sure you can figure out how big of a compliment that ISN'T. Have some courtesy. Try smaller handfuls at a broader pace. I shouldn't feel like a machine gun has just deployed when you're only cracking sunflower seeds. On the back of that HUMUNGOUS bag of chips you will find something that says NUTRITIONAL FACTS. In large print (I'm only assuming it's large print, because the bag is the size of a banner) there is something that says SERVING SUGGESTION. Start from there. Take a break in the middle of the day or something; it would probably help my tolerance level if you didn't go on chewing the entire eight hours we're here. It may also keep you from a dangerous choking incident, which, you know, has other positive consequence that are more of your benefit than mine.
After we get this snacking like a lady thing down, perhaps we can move on to the reasons why prefacing all of your statements with "honestly and truly" makes me question your sincerity all the more.
Honestly and truly,
Kayla.
I think that it goes without saying that I am not the "ladiest" of ladies. And I'm sure that you've got this all figured out (as dense as you are) already, even though we've only known each other for something like seven weeks. I mean, seriously, I wore an oversized, blue Old Navy sweatshirt to work today which is only different from the sweatshirt I wore to work on Thursday in that the other one was grey. I get that I'm no Carrie Bradshaw or even a Miranda Hobbes so please don't read this letter as though it were the words of a polished, pencil skirt, Cosmopolitan magazine editor, or even subscriber. We're not fooling anybody here, right?
That being said, here's a tip for you to take with a grain of or the entire cardboard cylinder of Epson salt: If you have to tilt your head back until your nose is pointing towards the ceiling to insert whatever snack it is you're eating at a ridiculously rapid pace, you've grossly misunderstood the concept of a bite-sized portion.
Hold on, don't start walking away yet. We both know I didn't get this wonderfully curvaceous physique from *not* knocking down towers of thin mint cookies at a time, so please understand that I probably appreciate all aspects of the eating process as much as you do, although definitely not as noisily or offensively, but whatever. The point is, well, as hard as this is for me to say, you're noisy and offensive. You're a noisy and offensive desk eater and seven weeks is quite enough!
I'm probably a little sensitive, I know. Like, it's probably unreasonable of me to think you inconsiderate for picking the loudest snacks ever. Not just regular crackers, but RICE crackers. Nice touch, because wheat crackers wouldn't have been loud enough. And who doesn't love pistacchios? I know... they're great. But what's even greater is the promising talent you show for cracking them open with your teeth as loudly as you do. I understand that mastication is not generally a silent activity and that my toleration of the sound(s) it creates is probably lower than most, so... you know, whatever. But did you, indeed, have to buy the LARGEST BAG of said noisy foods you could find? Or was that just the largest bag you could fit under/on your desk? (P.S. Thanks for bringing in the Family sized bag of Ruffles and not sharing with ANYONE.)
In case this little memo has been to passive-aggressive for your radar, let me put it to you in a different manner: Would you please stop making so much freaking noise eating? It's bad enough I have to listen to your stupid comments that come right off a NASCAR bumper sticker. You sound like da'gum Dale Gribbel from King of the Hill... except YOU'RE A LADY so I'm sure you can figure out how big of a compliment that ISN'T. Have some courtesy. Try smaller handfuls at a broader pace. I shouldn't feel like a machine gun has just deployed when you're only cracking sunflower seeds. On the back of that HUMUNGOUS bag of chips you will find something that says NUTRITIONAL FACTS. In large print (I'm only assuming it's large print, because the bag is the size of a banner) there is something that says SERVING SUGGESTION. Start from there. Take a break in the middle of the day or something; it would probably help my tolerance level if you didn't go on chewing the entire eight hours we're here. It may also keep you from a dangerous choking incident, which, you know, has other positive consequence that are more of your benefit than mine.
After we get this snacking like a lady thing down, perhaps we can move on to the reasons why prefacing all of your statements with "honestly and truly" makes me question your sincerity all the more.
Honestly and truly,
Kayla.
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