Saturday, October 28, 2006

letters part deux

Dear NPR's This American Life,

What the hell, man? Your show today was ridiculous. I mean...advertise scary stories and then feed me some bull about a lady getting attacked by a rabid raccoon (although a 30 lb raccoon does seem kind of frightening, I'm not sure the over dramatization of the event with high pitched violin notes and creepy piano lines was justified), a long and pointless story about kids hitchhiking, and then have the national public confirm just how much our parents can be assholes? I think you even knew the show was sucking because of the David Sedaris bit at the end. I can picture you thinking, oh man! what is this crap?! What can we do to salvage the program? Are there any David Sedaris stories in our archive we can recycle to save our lazy asses?

Fucken A,

Dear Church Gig,

7:15 AM rehearsal? 45 minutes away from where I live? Fuck you.


Dear Daylight Savings Time,

Thanks for the extra hour of sleep, but I'm afraid it's going to be pretty much wasted on my early-ass church gig. Bah, humbug.


Dear Impending Masters Degree,

Holy Shit. Only two classes left to take? A recital and orals? What do I do then? Why can't you hang around a little while longer so I don't have to think about this just yet? I'm scared. What if I just felt like I got things sorted here, and now you have to go on forcing me to make decisions about who I want to be and where?


Dear Me,

Can you find that drive you had at the beginning of the semester, as well as the feeling that anything was possible? Right now it really sucks to be you, because you can't seem to focus on anything and you're not preparing adequately for the heavy work load you have. I know you don't think anything could be worse than this past week in terms of work and stress, but that doesn't mean you can shut down and let the rest of the semester wash over you. Wake up, snap out of it, and put the nose to the grindstone.

All the best,

Dear Loneliness and the Overwhelming Desire to Lie in Bed Cuddling with Someone Special,

See above.

Please go away,

Dear Sex,

You're good. Too good, because I can't seem to have enough...but I wish just for a little while I could stop thinking about you so I could be productive and maybe a little less neurotic. Also, you have a nasty habit of interrupting my concentration in the worst places, like in rehearsal for a church gig or in the middle of Seventeenth-century Music lecture. I must really like you, because even though I'm annoyed as shit that I keep coming back to you in my head, I don't have the strength to tell you to piss off. I don't know what that means. Read between the lines, I guess.

Hornily yours,

Dear Gatsby,

Happy birthday, Chubby McFat-Fat.

Love you and your silly face,