Open Letter to the Deer That Got Hit With My Car

Mr. Deer,

Oh my god. Are you OK? You can't possibly be OK. We collided pretty hard, so much so that part of your antler broke off and for one flashing moment I thought your antlers were going to come through the windshield and kill me, Final Destination style. By the time I pulled over and was able to get out of the car (a feat, let me tell you), you had vanished. I can only assume you managed to hobble to the woods.

Mr. Deer, what the fuck were you doing? Technically, I didn't hit you, you hit me. You slammed into my driver's side door, full speed, liker a battering ram. When I called the Scotsman, shaky and on the verge of tears, he explained that it's your "running season," when you're mating and generally being lunatics. I can only assume you were chasing some sweet-ass doe in the hopes of boning. Sorry me and my car were cock blockers.

I am fine, in case you were wondering. I mean, I'm pretty shook up and I'm feeling a little sore today from being jostled around. But other than that, I'm fine. What is not fine is my car. You totally jacked the driver's side door; I can't even open it. My bumper, hood, and the area by my wheel is dent city. My driver's side headlight? Shattered. My thoughts on this are as follows: Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck. Fuuuuuuuck. Because now words like "claims adjuster," and "deductible" have entered into my vocabulary, and to tell the truth, even though I hold two degrees, I understand nothing about insurance. At all. And am pretty dumb, in general, when it comes to cars. I had also just been bragging to my aunt about what good condition Albus was in, and how I was going to ride in him as long as possible.

Now however, you may have foisted a decision-making process onto me. Namely if I should get Albus fixed ($$$), Not get Albus fixed and just tool around in a ghetto car for as long as possible (lame), or pony up and buy a new car with money I don't have. In any event, Mr. Deer, you've provided me with a lot of stress in these pre-Thanksgiving days.

I feel bad about you, though. Blame it on seeing Bambi one too many times as a kid, but I feel immense guilt from last night's collision. Even though I know there was no way I could have avoided you, was unfamiliar with the roads in Jersey, and was driving the speed limit. I keep imagining you limping through the woods, hobbling on broken legs, blood trickling, uneven antlers askew.

Last night, I dreamt of you.

Troubled,

Katie

An open letter to Gareth David-Lloyd

Gareth,

Hi. Can I call you Gareth? I just did. I hope that's OK.

Thank you for being nothing short of lovely when I met you tonight. Sorry I couldn't think of anything particularly interesting to say other than to ask you half-heartedly about the philosophy degree you're in the process of getting and I'm sorry I bugged you for autographs (but you helped make two girls very happy). Basically, I'm sorry I'm a dork and wish I'd had enough nerve/sense/coolness to talk to you like a normal person. As it is, I'm just thankful I didn't make a total ass out of myself, like I normally do when I meet famous people.

Thanks again for taking time out of your schedule to come and hang out with a bunch of academics. You're rad.

Katie

Re: Captain America

Thank you, Christopher. Thank you SO MUCH.

Made of win,

8K

An Open Letter To SEPTA

Dear SEPTA,

How stupid are you? You really didn't anticipate this many people? Seriously -- You guys had the same exact problem during Live 8 three years ago. You think you would have learned. "We have been overwhelmed with people." WELL, DUH. Especially since every news station and radio station were broadcasting "Don't drive into the city! Take SEPTA!" upon your recommendation.

GET IT TOGETHER, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.

Pffft,

8K

On Notice

To Mr. Viral Meningitis and Mr. Brain Infection,

Sirs, you are on notice. Your eviction is imminent. Please begin packing your bags. In the meantime LEAVE MY FRIEND ALONE, YOU BASTARDS.

Pissily,

8K


P.S. -- Any healing thoughts or prayers you can spare to this pretty girl would be appreciated.

Ugh

Dear American Television:

STOP FUCKING UP GOOD BRITISH SHOWS. The US version of Life on Mars looks like ass. (Even though it stars Colm Meaney and Lenny Clarke, both of whom I normally like, this does not redeem the stiff wooden Jason O'Mara, who my friends, is certainly no John Simm. And as much as I may like Colm Meaney, Philip Glenister is THE MAN, and I don't see how you can recreate that.)

If you like British shows so much, why don't you just buy the rights to them and air them as they are? There's a reason I'm addicted to BBC America.

Adding this one to the grave next to Viva Laughlin and Coupling,

8K

An Open Letter to Apple and iDVD

Dear Apple and iDVD,

Hi. Apple, baby, you know I love you. I just wanted to get that out of the way.

But.

Can you just tell me: Is there anyway, I mean ANYWAY AT ALL, to burn a DVD file using iDVD and not use all the preset menus and crap?

See, all I want is to burn a simple DVD for my viewing pleasure that will play in a DVD player and that be all. I don't need a menu. Or chapters. Or scene selection. Or fun music playing in the background. I mean, all those option are nice and fancy and everything. But frankly, I don't need them and it is currently taking FOREVER to render on this one DVD.

AND IT IS PISSING ME OFF.

Please, please. I've had a hectic day, and I'm running late and I might RUIN the return of Whosday, not to mention Henry's Whosbirthday! Which, as I don't need to point out, is VERY IMPORTANT.


Thanks,

EightK

Open Letters

Dear Warm Weather,

Well helllllllllooo there. I missed you all winter long. Don't ever leave me. I adore you. You make me feel happy and energetic.

Fondly,

EightK

--

Dear BBC,

Oh please, oh please, consider making Doctor Who available for download from iTunes. Because I would seriously fork over the $2.99 or I guess £ 2.99 which is about $6 here since the faffing dollar is such rubbish, but ANYWAY I would pay it, is what I'm telling you. The new season of Who has started and the internet is alight with spoilers and I am DYING over here. I guess you don't want to make it available since you have that deal with the Sci-Fi channel -- who by the way, will chop the episodes to shreds and delete character developing scenes for the sake of god damn commercials -- but 4 weeks is too long to wait and besides, I'll probably still watch them when they come on Sci-Fi anyway. Because that's just the type of dorky fan I am. It's all your fault for making such a good show anyway. As it is, I've had to revert to other methods.

You have no one to blame but yourself, you know.

Longingly,

EightK

--

Dear Luke,

Thank you so much. You know exactly why. You completely made my week.

Love,

EightK

--

Dear KOP Mall,

I know I've asked you this before, but I am asking you again because my need is that great. Please get yourself a Torrid. You have every other store on the planet, why not a Sassy Big Girl Hot Topic?

Get on it,

EightK

--

Dear Skirt,

What are you doing in a puddle around my feet?

Yours,

EightK

--

Dear Waistline,

Where did you go? Holy shit, did I really loose that much of you that my favorite skirt actually FELL OFF of me when I tried it on last night. Who knew that exercise actually worked?

I guess this is a good thing?

I still wish you were one fat roll of saddness less,

EightK

--

Dear EightK,

Well that's torn it. I guess that hot outfit you planned for tomorrow night isn't going to happen seeing as all your clothes are now too big. I guess you should skip class tonight and go shopping, as a treat to yourself.

Keep rocking out,

EightK

Johnny 5 is still alive

Dear Hollywood:

YOU HAVE OFFICIALLY RUN OUT OF IDEAS. STOP IT.

Way to ruin one of my favorite childhood movies,

Kate

Shut up, PowerPoint

Dear PowerPoint,

Shut up. I hate you and your retarded "Master Slide" that apparently DOES NOTHING other than give me the false impression* that by formating the master, it will in turn format all other slides to those specifications. I ask you, what is the point? I just futzed with you for no less than 40 minutes. You suck. Obviously you are Master of nothing, go and learn from a real Master.

Bletch,

8K

P.S. - I hate how you and all other Microsoft Office programs think I'm too dumb or uncreative to format my own shit and constantly insist on doing it for me. I don't want a frickin' page number there. I KNOW WHAT I WANT, LET ME DO IT.

*OK, I just checked -- that is the WHOLE POINT of a master slide. From your own instructions: "The master that holds the formatted placeholders for the titles, main text, and any background items you want to appear on a group of slides (usually all) in a presentation. If you make a change to the slide master, the change affects all slides in your presentation based on that master." Only, of course, it doesn't. HAAAATE. And Shut up.

Open Letter

To the Blond Ho-bag at the Bar:

STEP OFF. He's either mine or Krista's. Just because you have blond hair and a teeny-tiny waist doesn't mean anything. Because here's what you also have: a beat face, a fake tan, and zero personality. Unless that personality is "whore."

Krista and I may not have blond hair and I certainly don't have a tiny waist, but you know what we do have? Intelligence, talent, wit, and legs that go all the way down to the floor, my dear. I also have (and correct me if I'm wrong) a rack that doesn't quit. Krista's got a wagon she's draggin' that makes straight girls holler. We also both possess a certain amount of self respect.

Which is why -- really -- you need to sit your sorry, wasted ass down. And also, it's why I felt the need to be a bitch and cut in on you and said gentleman. Because the two of you together was making my upchuck reflex hit overdrive. And of course, I was trying to be all up ons. Go find a vapid man to fit your vapid personality.

Bitchily,

8K

P.S. - I firmly believe that the 5 minute conversation he and I had was more stimulating to him than anything you said all night.

Upon reflection this morning, I realized that this letter was less than charitable. Thinking about it and remembering the conversation Krista and I had in the bathroom I came to the realization that the girl (annoying and cock blocking though she was) probably suffers from the same sort of insecurities that I do. So I feel kind of bad having posted this just because I was frustrated and I didn't get my way.

Interrupting busy for venting

Dear Insomnia,


FUCK OFF.


- EightK

Crap Dudes

In an effort to not stress the fuck out so much — which, seriously, I'd love some heroin right about now. Anyone? — I've retreated into that wonderful abyss known as the internet. I spent an obscene amount of time on trashy celebrity gossip sites the past two days, because life may be slightly sucky right now, but at least I'm not running around town with greasy hair, no pants, and ill-fitting pirate boots while my loser skeeze of an ex-husband is making a better impression on the powers that be for child custody. You know. Unlike other people. Always look at the bright side of life.

Anyway. This morning I was surfing around Jezebel when lo, I came to their feature Crap Email From A Dude. The Redhead introduced me to this feature, and God do I love it. Mainly because it serves as a reminder that I am truly better off single since there are so many damn knobs out there.

Post-reading the Crap Emails From A Dude I thought it would be hysterical to see some of the responses from the females they are sent to, really cutting, sharp, witty responses that put these tools in their place.

And then I remembered. I may not have had a crap email from a dude, but I did have a crap phone call from a dude about a year and a half ago. And while I was polite and incredulous on the phone, I fired back via the internet in the passive-aggressive form of my blog. My blog then promptly broke. So no one saw it. Luckily, I managed to salvage it because I was cross posting to Xanga at the time.

The letter is from the Prince Fucking Charming debacle, a mere 24 hours prior to me discovering that he was using me to cheat on his girlfriend. The story of how I discovered this (for the three or four of you who still don't know the sordid tale) is for another time.


----


Dear Guy Who I Have a Date With on Friday,

You and I spoke for about 45 minutes last night. Allow me to give you a critique of our conversation:

1) When discussing our age differences (me being six years your junior), it is not proper to talk down to me, as if I am in junior high. I get it: I'm younger than you. But I also have a college education and have been living independently for 2 years*. I'm a grown up too.

2) While on the subject of our age differences, I asked if you were OK with dating someone who was younger. You replied with, "Being 24 means that you just haven't hit your prime yet." GWIHDWF, allow me to say to you now what I did not say when you said this to me: ew. You make me sound like un-ripened fruit or something. Not the way to my heart. Also: Asshole.

3) Still on the subject of me not being in my sexual "prime," you said about how you can "instruct me." Oh, okay, suuuuure. Allow me to give you some instruction: When you kiss someone, it is not an invitation to SUCK THEIR FACE, which is what you did to me last week when we hooked up. Ok, like the slow sexy lip suck can be very sensual, but dude, for real: Not every single time, and not with the power of a hoover. Gentle exploring with the tongue, please. And fuck off.

4) At some point in the conversation, completely un-ironically and not particularly joking like, you mentioned that you'd "put [me] in [my] place and show [me] who was boss." A note to you and to all other guys trying to woo a girl: DON'T EVER SAY SOMETHING LIKE THAT. Man, you know, I already felt how big your wang is through your pants on the dance floor. You don't need to continue to "prove" your "manhood" to me. Also, I am the biggest, most stubborn, brattiest, bitch. I fucking dare you to try to "put me in my place."

5) Yes, I hooked up with you on a dance floor in a bar while tipsy. Not my classiest moment. But, nor was it yours. Please, let's move beyond thunderdome and stop with the lame innuendos. All of your innuendos were predictable and kind of creepy. Innuendos should be sly, unexpected, and should make me smile and maybe blush slightly. Not roll my eyes, sigh, and cringe, which is what I did 80% of the time when you made them.

6) It is creepy, not to mention bad manners, to invite yourself over to my house. We were talking while you were driving home from work and you asked about where I lived, borderline asking for directions. When I continued to be purposely vague about it since you were so fucking transparent and I could tell what you were trying to do, you told me, "Well I guess I can't come over and surprise you right now." Damn straight. You know why? Because I didn't invite you over! Because I barely know you. And a alcohol infused fumble at a singles mixer does not a trusting relationship make.

7) Yeah, I'm bitchy, picky, and I have fucking high standards. I know what I want. Last Thursday I wanted a hook up. I got one. Today, I want to go back in time to Sunday and un-call you.

8) The more we talk, the less I am attracted to you.

9) I am only having dinner with you on Friday in the hopes that you'll redeem yourself.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Passive-aggressively,

EightK

---

*Hysterical Footnote: I discovered after the fact that he was 30 and still living with his parents. Lord, what a douche.

Got some new shoes on

Dear Wedge Shoes,

To me, you look like you should be worn by Dorthy Zbornak, whilst sunning herself on the lanai. In other words, you're kind of ugly and only appropriate for witty septuagenarians, is what I'm saying.

I can't wait until your fad is over.

Bring back real heels,

EightK

Windy City

Dear Chicago,

STOP STEALING ALL MY FRIENDS AWAY, DAMN YOU.

OK, sorry. So fine. You can steal them away but only because I know they will be happy in you. But you better treat them nice. OR ELSE I'M COMING TO BEAT YOU UP. For real.

Also, can you re-adjust yourself so you're closer to Philadelphia? Just a smidge? Please? Just asking. Think about it, kay? Cool.

Be nice to my friends,

EightK

Yet another open letter to cancer

Cancer,

Tonight was a night of awesome awesomeness. Do you want to know why? Well, I will tell you.

The Doc is home. Like, home home. After months in New York undergoing treatment, he's back. A recent trip to the hospital for some digestive issues showed clean blood work and X-rays. It's not an official scan, which won't happen for another couple months to allow further healing from the radiation, but right now I'll take it and I'll take it gladly. Yes, you robbed him of his voice, asshat, and made him go through God-awful radiation, for which I will eternally hate you. But this evening, I sat across from him at his dining room table and drank green tea with him. We laughed and teased and he was Doc, good old fashioned Doc, albeit with a cyborg voice. He's home and in good spirits and energy and I am quite thankful.

Also, this evening brought the news that my roommate, who a few months back was told he either had leukemia or lymphoma, in fact has neither. A biopsy showed that he just has some internal virus thing that caused his nodes to swell in a rather unpleasant manner. I don't know what the internal virus thingy is, but I love it, because it's not you.

I guess, after months and months of worry, heartbreak, stress, praying, filing, packing, fretting, crying, cursing, and fist shaking, what I have to say to you is this:

IN YOUR FACE, BIYATCH!

You can shut up and sing, kiss my ass, and stuff it sideways. We win.

Neener,

Katie


P.S. - Don't think I'm done with you either. Now more than ever I am coming after your ass. The Bloody Brilliant Britcom Day is in two weeks and I am still taking donations for the American Cancer Society at that time. Watch yourself, motherfucker. You fuck with my friends, you fuck with me. And I am sick of your fool self, screwing up the lives of my loved ones and other fine people. I'm not tolerating you anymore.

Open Letter to the ABC/Lost Brain Trust

Dear ABC/Lost Brain Trust,

Stop fucking around with your viewers and get over your damn self already. Last night's episode was horrible. Like, REALLY horrible.

1. To whomever made the promos -- "The 3 Biggest Questions Will Be Answered"? Really? I'm guessing the questions answered were: Do the writers think the viewers are dumb? Has season 3 resoundingly sucked so far? Are the people in charge too busy patting themselves on the back for the first two seasons to put any effort into the current season? The answers to all of the above seems to be "Yes."
   
   
2. To the casting director who hired Bai Ling to play the retarded role of the tattooist who can "see who people really are": You should be fired. She's a sucky actress and watching her and Matthew Fox twisting tongues set off my upchuck reflex.
   
   
3. No one cares about Jack's tattoos. Except maybe Matthew Fox.
   
   
4. FOR GOD'S SAKE I AM SO SICK OF THE SAWYER/KATE/JACK TRIANGLE. I never cared to begin with and it is so painful and old to watch now, I swear to God, Hamlet was more decisive. Just have Kate choose one or the other and lets get on with our respective lives.
   
   
5. Also, shut up, Jack. I used to enjoy him as a character because he seemed to have a lot of complex stuff going on: Daddy issues, abandonment issues, genius surgeon, etc. However, between the end of season two and now you've managed to make him so one note and cartoonish that I hate him. As someone else on some fan forum noted today, Jack's entire character can be summed up by the following: I'm a DOCTOR. Fuck you.
   
   
6. Seeing Cindy and the kids could have been quite dramatic and cool had the promos not given it away. Again, way to go, promo people.
   
   
7. Your viewers are not stupid. We already knew The Others didn't live on the same island as the Hydra Station. We already knew Ben was in charge, no matter what. Stop being all anvilicious about the crap that was explained to us 4 episodes ago.
   
   
8. So they haven't made an appearance yet, but I know for a fact that the annoying twins Nikki and Palo have a flashback episode coming up. This had better be damn good to win me over. I understand having to introduce new characters and all, but the way you did it was so ham-handed and stupid. Not to mention, you made them completely obnoxious and unlikable. I do not have high hopes for that episode at all -- prove me wrong, please.
   
   
9. Same goes for the Locke episode I know is coming up.

For the love of Astro Bars, get it together. You were so smart and suspenseful the first two seasons. I have faith that you can back there again, but man. You are taking a bath in Season 3, guys. Get your heads in the game. I promise I'll stick with you until at least the end of the season. You have until May to prove yourselves worthy of Season 4 with me.

Sheesh,

8K

A second, more bitter, open letter to cancer

Cancer,

You’re a son of a bitch, you know that? It’s bad enough that you took my Mom-Mom from me. And my Pa. And Aunt Mary R. And you’ve taken at least 3 of my aunts’ breasts. And then? You attacked my friend John’s baby who wasn’t even a year old yet. And now this.

Salivary gland cancer? For real? What the fuck is that?

So, OK, you’re not thyroid cancer. Instead, you’re a rare form of cancer that hardly anyone gets and then you spread to the thyroid, trachea, and vocal cords.

What is the matter with you? Why must you be so awful?

Basically they’re going to have to take out his thyroid, trachea, the whole shebang.

I could excuse maybe, if he was old. I could understand maybe, if he had led an unhealthy lifestyle and smoked or ate all fatty fried foods. But he’s young. He’s vegetarian and eats all organic foods. No sugar. Very little salt. And now they’re going to have to take out basically his whole throat because you felt the need to thrive in a perfectly healthy body.

His whole throat, asshole. You know what that means? It means he won’t be able to talk. That’s practically his whole being right there. He’s a teacher. That’s what he does. He talks, he lectures, he advises. Making him Robo-Doc is not clever. That’s it, isn’t it? You think you’re clever and cute all, "Look at me, no one can find a cure for me and I’m ironic!"

I hate you. I HATE YOU. Fuck you, cancer. Fuck you, your mom, and the horse you rode in on. I’m officially declaring jihad on you.

8K

Open Letters

Dear Thyroid Cancer,

Fuck off. Fuck off and DIE and leave my friend alone.


- 8K


===

Dear Allergies,

What the fuck? Since when do I get allergies? Since never, that's when. Go away and stay there.

- 8K


===

Dear Rip Current,

I hate you for doing this to my friend's family. You can suck it.

- 8K

===

Dear Everyone Who Lives in the Greater Philadelphia Area and Reads My Blog,

Come to my brother's fringe show with me tonight! Two Reings for the price of one! It's a very good deal. Also, there will be booze there.

-8K

===

Dear Redhead,

Oops, duh.



I love that you're addicted. HA!

-8K

To my cousin

I'm utterly disappointed. Bummed, bummed, bummed. We were supposed to have this awesome visit, this amazing time together where we, like, reconnected after years of geography and growing up separating us. But you canceled on me.

Part of me wants to be angry with you. Dude, you picked these dates yourself. We set it up more than a month ago, deal binding handshakes were had, Monopoly trash talking began, I spent $100 on train tickets. And now you're stuck working in Virginia for an extra 2 days. Couldn't you just have said no? Couldn't you have told them, look, family comes first? Couldn't you have pointed out to them that you're not even supposed to be down there, that you're supposed to be doing the management training? Ugh. And then, as I'm trying to fix our visit by proposing you swing over to Philly on your way up and we hang for a day or two, you're not returning my phone calls. AGAIN. Probably because you think I'm angry at you. And also because you like to withdraw.

But then you send me texts messages that say, "55 hours a week plus travel. My life sucks." And, "I'm sorry, cuz. I love you. You were always the smart one." And then another part of me wants to shake you by the shoulders and scream, "Stop feeling sorry for yourself! If you don't like your life, then CHANGE it!"

But the biggest part of me isn't angry with you at all. The biggest part of me is worried. Because I know that you are severely unhappy. Because I know you feel stuck and don't know how to change it. Because I want to hug you and help you figure out how to fix it all. Because I wish we could go back to when you were "Micheal Seeeeeeeger!" (or if I was excited "MichealSeeeegerMichaelSeeeeeger!"). To when we would do flying leaps off of Aunt Mary R's porch, pretending we were jumping off mountain tops. To when we would play nerf football in Mom-Mom's development parking lot even though I hated football and would always loose. To when we would have weekend-long Monopoly tournaments because it was the only game Mom-Mom had besides Don't Talk To Strangers! and admit it, Crime Dog McGruff lost his appeal before you got through the first block. To when you and I would hide in the closet hoping that your parents wouldn't find us and would forget you in Lebanon when they went back to Pittsburgh, thus leaving you with me forever. To when we would build forts around Aunt Mary R.'s 70's furry chocolate brown couch and sneak Jello pudding pops and Cheeze Balls down there. To when Uncle Butch and Aunt Mary had those parties and we would climb the willow tree in the front yard and take big glasses of birch beer from the 1/4 keg and drink them down all cold and sweet before dashing off for more hours of running around the yard pretending we were having wild adventures and catching fire flies.

I want all of that back and I know you do too.

Aunt Janet says she thinks you're embarrassed for not finishing college and for being "behind" in life, whatever that means, it's not like it's a race or anything. I guess that may be part of it. But I also think that so much of it has to do with when Mom-Mom died. That's when you stopped coming to Thanksgiving. You haven't been back to Lebanon since. Oh sure, you've visited Aunt Mary and Uncle Kevin's a couple of times, but they lived in Carlise and now Camp Hill. Not Lebanon. Not since she died. I miss her too.

I really miss her, too.

Other people in our family have written you off for never being around and for flaking out of family events. And I gotta say, you make it easy for them. Hell, you're making it easy for me now. But I will never do that. I can never do that. Because you're my Michael Seeeeeeeger and you always will be. I refuse to give up on you. And I'm stubborn, man. You're not going to shake me. Because you're a close link to my past, and I believe you're going to be important to my future. Because we're cousins, first cousins and as we used to say, first is the best kind there is. Because I feel a bond and connection with you and I refuse to sever it.

Because I love you. Please be happy. I want you to be happy.







P.S. -- Nice shorts, man.