Dear Stare-y McStare-ypants, Please stop fixing me with your creepy, beady-eyed gaze. You're on a public commuter rail, not at a peep show booth. Other people can see you, you know. Read a book. Look out the window. Just stop looking hopefully at me like I'm going to talk to you/start undressing. It's not going to happen. Same goes for you, fat balding guy with the sad little braided tail. Just because we both have iPods doesn't mean we have anything else in common. I can only imagine that yours is full of Foghat, for one thing.
Dear Media, Please stop telling me about every minute detail of what Martha Stewart had for breakfast today and how long it took after her first cup of coffee before she had to go to the bathroom. Same goes for the Michael Jackson trial. I don't want to hear all the creepy details of what may or may not have happened to that poor kid. That's what a jury is for. Just tell me how it ends. There are a lot of other things I'd like to know about instead. How are things going in Afghanistan, say, or what are we going to do about Darfur? That sort of thing.
Dear people I work with, Please stop branding me as some sort of eccentric just because I have interests outside of work and have changed my hairstyle since 1986. I am completely normal. Extra super normal. You, on the other hand, all appear to be weird shut-ins.
Dear Rhode Island, You are a crap excuse for a state. No wonder we Massachusettsians banished people here. I can't even get a decent burrito here. Maybe it will suck less when Buddy Cianci gets out of the big house, but I hope to be long gone by then.
Dear time, Please slow down. I'm not finished yet.