Dear too fast and too furious,

Okay, I get it: you're running late to work, possibly missing your child's soccer game because you're an awesome father or you forgot to Tivo Glee. I absolutely understand your taintless reasoning behind cutting me off.

It’s pertinent that my legal speed limit is surpassed by your sudden and luminous appearance in front of my car; five feet from my bumper and two feet from the bumper of the car in front of me. No, there wasn't enough space; however, nice try.

I’m also aware that after partaking in such reprehensible behavior, you feel the need to slam on your brakes, you know, performing a sort of slow-down apology. This definitely works because you fully receive my attention in ways you will never know. Trust me.

I also feel like this is now a better time than ever to tell you that your baby on board sticker isn't a handicap bypass. It doesn’t matter if you have twins or if you're Octo-mom driving her short bus, you still deserve a middle finger.

It's not that big of a deal anymore. I am moving on. Consider this closure. I mean, it's not like I was paying attention or anything. I was doing things I shouldn’t have been doing like applying lipstick and drumming my steering wheel to ghetto rap that I'm too white for. You sort of saved me from myself and I do love you for that. Talk about a brake light intervention.

I hope you see that this letter is out love and you grow from this. After all, I’d hate for you to never make it to your kid’s soccer game or God forbid, miss the next episode of Glee.

Forever and for always,
I never want to see your half-witted Honda again


Photo source, unknown

Dear forever stuck in college,

Might I begin this not-so-love letter with apologizing for allowing my acts of being nice to double as flirtation; opps, my bad. For you, my dear, deserve the utmost respect--granted how much you made me cringe—for sticking around after relentless shut downs.

I knew it wasn't love at first sight when you hit on me too much upon first meeting. You were pretentious as well as cheesy and I surely didn't want to feel your bicep or know your body fat percentage.

We had little to nothing in common, you didn't even know a single Nirvana song that your roommate was playing on his guitar (now he is another love letter of another kind) and you said things I uttered in 8th grade thinking I would sound cooler like: "tyyyyyyte." Emphasis on the y sound for three seconds.

You had this way about you like the girl in Can't Hardly Wait who always wanted her yearbook signed; only you didn't want your yearbook signed, you were just kind of always there, appearing, popping up and texting too much about your day. I thought guys liked space? It was weird.

When you told me you majored in awesome in college, I wasn’t intrigued, a part of me believed you were serious and wondered if you put that on your resume. I then began to fear for your future.

It wasn’t romantic standing under the stars when you asked—begged—for a kiss. I wasn't playing hard to get or being a tease like you thought, I was fighting back puke in my mouth and thinking of a legitimate excuse to rid you.

It just would have never worked. You and I were no PB & J like you thought; we were more like cereal and Orange Juice.

I commend you for your perseverance and imagination after being continually shut down on several occasions. You showed great work ethic and for that, I wish you nothing but a lifetime of awesomeness and hope you find a chick as tyyyyte as you.

Never being nice again for the sake of being nice

Photo source: Nicolás Méndez

There's no question that we do weird things; things that are unexplainable to anyone trying to grasp the reasoning behind our culture. Typically, these habits have no positive outcome and no necessary means for performance, they just happen as if their instilled in us.

Whether or not you perform any of the following, you probably know someone who does, did today or will tomorrow.

Things like cleaning your bedroom turns into leaving the vacuum in the corner for a week. Good for you, you got a free coat rack. It's beyond me or oneself as to why a person wouldn't just put it away--a simple task taking three minutes to perform--but instead a week of Oreck decor is seemingly more idyllic, especially when bra's and dresses are hanging off it.

Speaking of laundry, who actually completes it? I have come to the conclusion that the maker's of dryer's want us lazy. Yes, you Whirlpool. The wrinkle guard setting was built in for a reason. We'd rather have the dryer restart itself 56 times before emptying it and folding our stupid jeans let alone emptying it at all: what's a dresser for anyway?

If it's not laundry, it's the dishes; they remain in the dishwasher after cleaned until needing to be cleaned again. Why put them away--ever--when you can single handedly remove items when needed? One fork at a time.

Then there's tailgating. What's the point of riding someone's ass only to arrive at a red light beside the ass ridden car? How awkward. The guy is totally strapping dynamite to your body in his head as he stares you down. You, the now scared and nervous driver, are pretending you did nothing wrong and continue to stare straight ahead while nodding to Lady Gaga, Ja Rule or whatever you're listening to.

Not checking voice-mails. Letting your voicemails rack up until there are 40 in your inbox leaving you with 30 minutes of listening to your mom, dad, boss, drunk friends singing to you at 4:00 a.m. and dentist reminders. Awesome, hope you popped popcorn.

Waiting until 9:30 a.m. to get ready for work at 10. Welcome to suddenly missing everything: keys, one shoe, your wallet, your phone, hell, even your car. You probably stub your toe on a corner constantly, blame the world, arrive at work late and furious and it’s everyone else’s fault.

Acting totally surprised when you meet someone new as if you haven't already seen their Facebook/MySpace/Twitter/criminal records. Yeah, keep pretending like you didn't know their favorite band, that she has two sisters and once met Elton John. Your acting is phenomenal.

Watching scary TV shows like Ghost Hunters alone in the dark when you're indeed afraid of ghosts and the dark. Idiot. You know what's going to happen. You know the guy with the Scottish accent is going to walk into a room and the ghost meter is going to go nuts, hence the title "Ghost Hunters." You know it's going to make you jump when a loud noise happens. You know that you will now have to sleep with a light on and walk to your room while saying "I am not afraid of no ghosts" loudly, in case there are ghosts.

Stupid behavior doesn't stop at ghosts. Think back on those mornings when you pour out of bed after too many Vodka Tonic's. Dragging your dehydrated and lethargic self to the fridge, you find a drip of water left in the pitcher thanks to your too kind roommate or worse, there's an empty juice carton. The trash can is two feet away, yet you can't seem to throw it out and would rather be an ass and put it back. Your logic is of ill repute.

This behavior is never going to change. It's in our nature to do weird things that make no sense, even to us.
How many times do you say or hear that you or someone has a "type?" I'm not talking about personality; I’m talking about physical appearance.

This is subject to opinion but when it comes to attraction, having a type is obsolete. It's not 2002 anymore people. Genres are colliding, style is transcending--we finally got rid of bleached tips and button down shirts with flames on them--and life is too short to not appreciate all that's out there.

Men come in all shapes and forms so it surprises me when girls say they only like brunettes or blonde's. It also surprises me when guys say the same about women. I have a type of guy I'm attracted to when it comes to interests and personality but that never affects hair color or body type.Limiting is for dieters. The last place I want restriction is what's lying in my bed. Go ahead and grab the zero calorie sweeteners, but don't deprive yourself of a perfectly good blonde because you only like brunettes.

Being an extremist in the dating world is no fun. It's like eating plain yogurt: bland, boring and you will end up bitter. It’s not like eye color equals some weird ailment that will be carried down genetically if you procreate.

It's also kind of offensive when guys just
nonchalantly throw in that they don't like blonde's or that short girls are just...just. That's not what you said after that last Tequila shot on spring break Don Juan.Here's nonchalant for you: beer bellies aren't sexy. Get over yourself.

Brunette, blonde, dirty blonde, red hair, white, black, Hispanic, two eyes, four eyes, you name it; I appreciate it all. A face is a face and a personality is a personality. No height limit or eye color is going to be a deal breaker.

This constant search for perfection is just exhausting anyway.
Too much time is spent focusing on what we don't want while clouding our vision of what's rightly available. This recipe for your perfect man which too closely resemble's a prince in a Disney cartoon is too much for even the most handsome Disney prince. Must have: quirky nose that gives character, hazel eyes, black thick curly hair, eyes perfectly distanced, no freckles, and is taller by at least five inches for heel wearing height--no shorter. Criteria be gone!

When it comes down to it,
someone resembling Ryan Reynolds may be nice, but what if he is an ex-con, shroom growing, sleeps with his step mom, steals from children and white van driving type of guy? What if he is one of those weirdo's that gets on Chatroulette by himself and points the camera at his junk? A five o' clock shadow and green eyes won't negate that.

Granted, I'll turn my head at a total babe, but I'll also turn my head at great style, or a an awesome personality.

I used to always say "I only like dark hair and eyes," then I grew up and realized all men have something great to offer (except the guys on Chatroulette at 2:00 a.m.). A guy with wavy filthy blonde hair can walk in a room and totally make my knees give out (filthy in the, I took time to look this way, not because I haven’t showered in a week way) just as much as a balding guy with amazing charisma.

Types: who needs them?
Let's just stop striving for an ideal prototype and appreciate the beauty that walk’s around us. It’s perfectly fine If you don't want to of course, because then there's more for myself and every other girl out there.

The bottom line is: an attractive person is an attractive person. No if's and's or but's.



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