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Dear Guy In Front of Me At The Drive-Thru,

You know when they say “Order when you’re ready?” I hate to be the one to inform you of this, but they don’t really mean it. It’s code for “Start talking, asswipe.” Maybe if they could say that out loud, the job would be worth the $5.50/hour they get paid, but alas, they can’t.

Dear New York Gypsy Cab* Driver,

Who the hell are you talking to on the phone? You’ve been chattering nonstop for the last half-hour. I don’t think I’ve even seen you breathe, much less allow the person supposedly on the other end of the line to speak.

Who is your carrier, and what crazy rate plan are you on? I know you’re not swimming in cash or you wouldn’t be driving a Towncar that looks like it ended its career as an extra on a Dukes of Hazzard episode.

Dear Pretentious Grad Student,

Hi! I’m the guy who sits behind you in class. You know that odd crunching noise you hear every time you speak? Yeah, that’s me griding my teeth. I know you look down on me because I rarely speak in class. I know you think I have nothing to add to what you say. And you’re right, I don’t.

Ah, that time of year has come at last.

Every year, around this time, exciting red and blue and green packages appear on the shelves at my local Albertson’s. And every year, around this time, I buy one of those shiny foil-covered boxes, remove one of the contents, and eagerly eat it.

And every year, around this time, I spit the contents of the box out of my mouth and say, “Motherf*cker! Gross!”

That’s right. I’m talking about Cadbury eggs.

Dear Creepy Street-Corner Mime,

I just want a word to explain to you why I reacted the way I did when you playfully “discovered” an invisible wall in front of me on the street the other day. I admit that kicking you in the testicles and running away screaming like a girl was an indecorous reaction, but it’s important to me to explain myself before you pass judgment on me.

Dear Emily,

I know it’s been some years since I’ve spoken to you, and you probably assumed I’d gotten past it by now, but I need some closure. I couldn’t tell you this before because I was too close to it; I needed time and space to gather myself and recover enough to say this to you.

I hate how dry it gets this time of year.

I had to get up to turn the humidifier on the other night just to get a little sleep. When it gets this arid, and sinuses dry up, a funny thing happens. My girlfriend begins to make this horrible noise in her sleep. It’s so loud it wakes me up a few times a night.

The noise she makes sounds like:

“Honey, stop snoring. I can’t sleep with you making that racket. Turn over or something.”

Dear Chloe & Toby,

I know that you do not know your own names; in fact, you may know yourselves better as “Holy Shit” and “You Little Bastard,” respectively. Chloe & Toby are the names I gave you upon adoption, however – the ones you cheerfully ignore on a daily basis.

There are a few matters that I would like to discuss with you, without the use of the spray bottle. Apparently, tapwater has corrosive properties when applied to cats, which may make it an effective tool for expressing anger, but not productive for a civil conversation.

I pulled up to a stoplight today, and was surprised (as anyone would be) to find my bowels loosening. On further inspection, I found that my teeth were chattering as well, and my brainwaves were being forced into a subtle rhythm that made me slightly nauseated.

Heeeeey-Ya.

It was the Escalade (surprise!) stopped next to me at the stoplight. At first I assumed that there was something horribly awry in the engine compartment, but then I realized that the driver seemed to be actually enjoying the testicle-shrivelling rhythm.

Doc Ock and Elton John. Coincidence? I think not.

Have you ever seen them in a room together? Not I.