Thursday, February 12, 2004

In true McSweeney's fashion, my first open letters...

OPEN LETTERS February 12, 2004.

Open Letter to the Guy Who Rides the Bus with Me Every Morning, But Pretends Like He Doesn’t Recognize Me:

We often stand at the bus stop for more than 10 minutes, both looking in the same direction for the bus, employing elevator-etiquette. We both pretend we’re standing there alone and avoid eye contact. When I look in the other direction to see if the other bus is coming, I make sure to lean over emphatically so you know I’m not looking at you. ‘Cause that would cross the boundary of bus-stop etiquette. Usually you let me get on the bus first, and I assume it’s because you’re being a gentleman. That’s a good trait that you should try to keep. I bet you have a really nice mom or a lot of older sisters. I imagine them to be all close in age, with you being the outlier and the only boy in the household. I assure you this is the first and last time I have thought about your family. Sometimes when we catch the same bus back home, I want to wave and say “Hey! How were your classes?” but I never do (as you obviously know). Maybe I will next time though.

Lindsay (that’s my name)

Open Letter to People Who Don’t Like Me:

If you see me, then don’t stop to talk to me. It makes you look stupid. I’ll step onto the soap-box I’m borrowing from my brother and tell you that if you don’t like someone, you probably don’t want to talk to them, so just don’t do it. Common sense is not always that common among stupid people, so I’ll forgive you. Don’t worry, you don’t even have to ask me to forgive you, I will do it automatically. I know, I’m very gracious, and yes, the rumors you heard about me being nominated for a Nobel Prize for Humanitarianism (word?) are true. But you don’t have to come to the ceremony, because you don’t like me, although I’m sure you’re beginning to ask yourself why. Embrace that uncertainty, I’m sure one day you will come to your senses.

Until then,
Shut up and keep walking,

Open Letter to My Physics Professor:

I imagine physics professors to be dry and have an old-fashioned English accent. Or maybe Welsh or something. Something British, that’s for sure. And like to talk about Newton and other science-type people that I know nothing about. But you are chubby, and have a red face, and I think you mentioned growing up in Detroit of something. I think you actually said "The D" and tried to be cool. I like you. Sure, your jokes are trite and the class if full of freshman and sophomores who are still too scared to embrace their higher educators in all of their quirkiness, but I chuckle at your jokes when I make it to class. Also, sorry for skipping all the time. Anyway, I think a good idea would be to spice up the physics lecture. Why don’t you take that kid who always sits in the front row (the only one who asks questions out of the two hundred some kids in the class… I know you know who I’m talking about!), take him and let’s calculate the velocity of his body being thrown out of class at the speed of light, when his body is at a 15 degree angle from the horizon, and his bicycle helmet creates friction with the air, which has a permitivity constant of, say, 2 times that of air in a vacuum. I bet you would get a rise out of the class then! You would be the talk of campus! I can see it now. Really, you should think about it. Get back to me about it, m’kay?

Gravitationally yours,
Lindsay (you may also know me as A293237xx)

Open Letter to My Sinuses:

You know, there is a point in every persons (or… organs? What are you anyway?) life when they have a breakdown and just let go. They stop going to work, stop returning calls, stop responding to the requests from their roommates to take out the smelly trash… you catch my drift? Therefore, based on the guidelines I have just outlined for you, I would have to conclude that you are going through a breakdown… a crisis of sorts. We have all been through one before, so don’t feel alone. But for God’s sake, pack up your shit and get the fuck out of my nasal cavity.

Here’s to hoping you a swift and painless death,
Lindsay Smith

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