Love letters vs. Hate mail, part 1

Dear Friday, why don’t you come around more often? I am convinced we could have such a good time together. I love how you let me wear jeans and you deceive me into thinking the workday is short and bearable. When the sun is shining and the air is warm, your martini promises are positively intoxicating. But even when it’s gray and cold, the promise of you waiting for me at home swaddled in fleece beckons to me. Friday, we were meant to be together, yet you give yourself so sparingly, it’s maddening! I need you, Friday. Please. I’m begging you.

Dear Facebook, I want you to mind your own business. Stop suggesting friends for me and do not try to guilt me into reconnecting with people I have not messaged in a while. Clearly I want to avoid these people. Most likely I never was actually friends with them in the first place, so I am not interested in receiving their boring and/or insipid status updates. Like the girl from high school who was a dumb stoner and now seems to be a dumb slut who complains that people judge her for being a stripper. This is just one example, Facebook, but I’m warning you, I know what I am doing and you better just stay out of it. Word.

Dear Cabernet Sauvignon, you have the ability to make me swoon. When you are full-bodied, your velvety texture and earthy bouquet are music to my taste buds. I want to put all of you in my mouth and feel you. Your sexy tannins slide down my throat and give me that fuzzy, heady feeling that anything is possible. I think you and Friday should get together and give me call.

Dear Butch Cashier at Shaw’s, you are a cunt. You do not acknowledge me with a hello, you look at me blankly when you’re done ringing me up, and then you have the audacity to sit back on your fat ass and watch while I bag everything. Um, excuse me, I just worked a full day so why am I doing your job? To top it off, you do it all with a sour puss on your face. I hate you.

Dear Spin Bike, you are so intense! You stand there in the corner, looking all unassuming and timid, but I know better. You are so sleek and shiny, summoning me to you. I mount you gingerly, clip in my shoes, and begin to pedal slowly. Your flywheel moves with me ever so smoothly, afraid to catch, lest you scare me away too soon. But you are so tricky, Spin Bike, because once I think I know how things will go, you begin to resist me and I really have to work for it. I am forced to focus on what my body has to do to conquer you into submission. My heart will be thumping, sweat will drip down the side of my face, and my legs will quiver with every stroke. Yet, all that does is cajole me into pedaling faster and harder until we are moving so fast and furiously the room is practically a blur and I want to cry out from the exertion. Finally you relent a bit so I can ease up and catch my breath. I can’t believe how amazing you can make me feel. No one would guess it from looking at you, but I love that you have this secret smile just for me. Damn, you’re exquisite.

Dear Europcar, I know you are scamming me. The only traffic violation I could have committed while trying to navigate out of Rome was not driving enough like a lunatic on a one-day pass. Methinks you troll through your records to find the American drivers and just send them an incomprehensible letter that ultimately demands 40 euro. It’s a crafty ploy, but it makes me trust Europeans less than I already did. Pezzo di merda.