Open letters: Special Airport/New York Edition

Obviously you know I got back from New York like, a week ago, but I’ve been saving these open letters for a rainy day (or, more applicably, a snowy day).

Dear Guy on the Plane with Sunglasses On,

Wow, buddy. It must be pretty bright on this early evening flight, because you’re wearing some pretty sweet Ray Bans.

There are only 4 reasons for this:
1. You are allergic to sunlight.
2. You have the hangover of the century.
3. You’re a voyeur and want to stare at people undetected. Sexy!
4. You’re a massive tool.

Sir, I’m thinking that you are a tool. In fact, you’re a whole box of tools. No. Wait. You’re a whole shed of tools.

Seriously, the only person on earth cool enough to wear sunglasses inside is Bono. And you, sir, are no Bono.

Puff Daddy (P. Diddy?) can’t pull it off, and neither can you. Especially not in the damned Atlanta airport, for fuck’s sake.

While we’re at it, girl jeans, skinny-cut girl jeans specifically, do not look good on dudes. I understand that you want to show off your perfect size 4 body, you skinny little bitch, but all it does is give you a man-style camel toe.

I realize that I’m not a fashionista. All my clothes are from Target and I have more flat shoes and black turtlenecks than you can shake a stick at.

But I at least resemble a normal human, not some fashion week knockoff. Just wear sweatpants like everybody else.

Just trying to help,
Artsy

Dear crazies who insist on pooping in front of me,

Really, guys? Is that necessary?

One person pooping in front of me is enough. But both of you?

I wish I was into scheisse porn, so at least I could write a Penthouse-style letter about your public defecation.

But alas, no.

So please quit it, dudes. I hate poop.

Sweet-smelling kisses,
Artsy

Dear Teeny-tiny Old Ladies shuffling down the streets of New York,

Oh my God, HOW ARE YOU STILL ALIVE!?!?!

You move with the pace of a crippled sloth. You are 4′9″. You weigh maybe 87 lbs soaking wet. You look like you have no idea what’s happening around you.

Yet, you are everywhere! I saw about 7 of you a day, every day, and never any of you twice.

Are you the keepers of the Holy Grail? You look like a much frailer female version of the immortal knight in Indiana Jones. There must be some sort of immortality secret you’re keeping from the rest of the world, because if I was going to mug and slaughter someone, you’d be the easiest target on the planet.

And still, you survive and are (seemingly) flourishing. You go on with your bad, ancient selves.

Girl Power!,
Artsy

Dear Horrible Parents,

I hate you. You made my uterus shrivel up and die.

Shut your kids up.

Shut.

Them.

Up.

I don’t mean little kid babble, because that’s funny. I mean screaming ridiculousness that you seemingly ignore. Next to me. In a small enclosed space.

A muzzle would work wonders,
Artsy

That’s it for right now. More later.