Dear LA Bikers,
If you are going to not wear a helmet, talk on your cell phone, and not stop at stop signs, then I don’t want to share the road with you at all.
Dear LA Bikers,
Dear Busser at Joan’s on Third,
I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name on your name tag, but you are the one who learned a little lesson about gender norms and making assumptions the other day.
I (a female in her mid-twenties) was there on the patio with my uncle (a man in his mid-forties). We were just chatting about whatever, waiting for our food, which you brought to the table. Instead of asking who had the salad and who had the sandwich filled with cheese and meat, you plopped that salad right down in front of my without a second thought, and gave the sandwich to my uncle.
Here is the thing, though. I did not want any part of a salad from Joan’s. Some days I do, but not that day. And my uncle isn’t even eating bread right now. So maybe next time, please ask who ordered what instead of just being all “oh here’s a young gal she gets a salad, obv,” and walking away.
It’s a brave new world these days, full of women who want to eat a sandwich.
The more you know.
Dear Ridley Scott,
Today I saw this doodle you doodled and got REAL excited:
I listened to The Martian on Audible in just three sittings and it might just be the best book I’ve read in years. Probably this movie will be great, but I would like to go on the record as saying “Please don’t mess this up,” just in case.
PS: Will theaters be serving Martian Coffee on opening night or what?
Dear Benjamin Franklin,
Hey, silly guy. Remember in 1781 when you wrote an essay about farts? Well, I just learned about it. Somehow, my beloved AP US History teacher failed to mention this back in high school. What if it had been on the test?! But at least I know now. I also now know that in the essay you referred to a fart as “a great quantity of wind” and ended the essay by calling a farthing a “FART-HING.”
Bless you, Ben Franklin.
Get off my television. Go play hearts with Finn Walden somewhere far, far away and never again comment to your father about how many televisions are in your CIA safe house if I can hear you.
You are ruining Homeland for me and that is at least light treason.
Love Hate and repulsion, Amy
P.S. It’s not your fault, Jackson Pace. You didn’t write such a dopey character for yourself.