An Open Letter

To the various people I see throughout my days.

To the white-blonde guy who walks past the bus-stop in the mornings,

You are a very striking looking guy. If I had your bone structure and hair colour, I would consider going on the cover band circuit as a Billy Idol impersonator.

To all the women I see wearing office casual, with jogging shoes,

It weirds me out and I don't know why you do it. Do you just wear them when you're on your way home and keep a cooler pair of shoes in your bag or something? Doesn't that get annoying? Do you really think joggers go with those classy duds you have on? Seriously, you look hella hot from the ankles up. White joggers should never have been invented.

To the girl I drooled over on Thursday morning,

I really liked your shirt, because it had a big blue and red target on it and reminded me of Tank Girl. You wore those denim short-shorts so well, and your hair was luscious. And then as I got close enough to pass you, I noticed you had freckles all over. You are so gorgeous.

To the 3 hot American jerks wearing hospital scrubs on the train this morning,

You reminded me of Scrubs, and for that, I thank you. You are all superbly hot.

To the witty bus driver I occasionally get on the way home,

Thanks for not being a sadsack jerk like all the other ones. I like how you try to joke with every single passenger. It may make the journey take longer, but it makes everyone happier.

To the people who press the crossing button repeatedly,

This will not make the lights change any faster. In fact, it does nothing at all. You really don't even need to press that button, because the traffic lights are not dictated by how many pedestrians need to cross the road. They are all timed, and if you just wait, your turn will come.

To the people who press the crossing button while I'm leaning on it,

Get the hell away from me. You know I already pressed it, I'm leaning on it. You just stepped into my space bubble, and for that you should die. Step away from me.

To the person serving the counter at the Mexican place,

I still haven't figured out if you're a man becoming a woman, or a woman who looks like a man becoming a woman. Whatever you are, you're hot, and your hair is the highest beehive I've ever seen. Props.

To my coworker,

It's not funny or cool when you diss on your wife.

To the lady at the chemist counter,

I'm sorry for the look of shock and indignation I gave you when you told me how much my prescription would cost. I guess I'm not used to Big Medicine raping my bank account. It's not your fault.

To my brother who when I walked into work this morning said "Nice dress. Why don't you go back to your home on Whore Island?",

That was actually pretty fucking funny.

To Janeane Garofolo,

I wish we could be best friends. We could get real drunk and dance to My Sharona, talk about the indie music scene and watch Mike Judge cartoons. You could teach me how to properly apply eyeliner, then we'd go op-shopping for Doc Martens. After that we could go sit in the park and talk about the 'normals', while dreading each other's hair and reading Sylvia Plath to each other or something. Maybe we could get matching Gonzo-fist tattoos. If you're into it. Call me.