Open Letter

An open letter to the repressed prig on the elliptical trainer next to mine:

The act of bobbing my head with my eyes half closed and a stupid smile on my face while listening to the Pogues on my headphones was not intended to fuck your day up in any way.  Apparently, you did not get the memo. The impulse to glare at me when you thought I couldn’t see you and then look out the window really fast when I turned my head comes from the same place in your psyche that says even if you just lie there like a corpse while he fucks you, you’re still doing him a favor.  So I’m sorry if all the joy has been sapped from you life and the only achievement you have to cling to is that you weigh the same as when you graduated high school, but maybe if you listened to more infectious music and didn’t mind so much when others enjoyed themselves in your proximity, you wouldn’t scowl so much.  Which, by the way, is giving you brow lines, you might want to look into botox. 

I hate how truly parochial this town is.  The physical beauty, Gary’s good job, the low cost of living, good schools for Noam, is all great, but there is this awful sense of “this is how things are done, honey, straighten up and get in line, or else”  I don’t see the diversity that Baltimore or Chicago had.  I would say I was romanticizing it, but I just got back and I miss Cath and Sue and PJ and Earl and Kerim every day.  And Angell I miss you more, because you were here and we had each other. 

 And to the shrew on the elliptical trainer, a physics class might also be in order.  Light travels in straight lines until it meets an object, that’s why I can fucking see you in the window.