Letters I Write Daily In My Head That I'll Never Send.

Dear Couple in the Pope Science Building,

I see you over there, next to the railing. Yes. So does everyone else. If there were a class on the Science of canoodling, undoubtedly you'd be the professors. And you'd team-teach. It'd be freaky, but I think I could be fi - what? No. Why are you leaning in so, slowly? Like, painstakingly slowly. Either speed it up or STOP. Now your lips meet. I worry they'll part, but it's almost worse when they don't. It's like you're going to peck each other to death. And there you are. With your lips still tightly sealed into some sort of kiss-cone, no open-mouth action, awkwardly rubbing your lip-tips on each other and twisting your heads like a dog with a chew-toy. I? Nope. Just. Nope. That's not how that's done.

Concerned for your safety,

Me.

Dear Pregnant Woman on the Bus,

We seem to ALWAYS be on the bus at the exact same times, everyday. It's a shocker you're not in any of my classes. What is even more shocking to me, however, is the fact that you look so great, every single day. Is it (warning: racist comments ahead) because you are Asian, and therefore inherently able to pull off anything and EVERYTHING? Is it the fact that you have facial structure Tyra would literally kill for (she IS that crazy.) and a rockin' body that makes me wish for my own baby bump just because you've somehow created the false illusion that a pregnant body is BETTER? You're that fashionable. If I wore MC-Hammer pants and a graphic tee with a hooded scarf, the good old nine forty-six would drive right on by. With you? Not so. You're LEGEND.

Sincerely in awe, and looking forward to seeing you again,

Me

P.S. I'm gonna search the Internet for the fashion blogs your baby has been writing up in all that amniotic fluid, cause I KNOW they gotta be good.

To all males in the laundry room (with a special emphasis of direction those who are legitimately under 5 feet tall):

When I bring my "delicates," jeans, t-shirts and dirty towels to the laundry room after nine thirty at night, I am not really sure why that is somehow the sweet, silent equivalent of a mating call to you. And also. If you have to look UP to hit on me, well, then. While I commend you for confidence, I must tell you... I really am here just so I'll have clean clothes tomorrow. That's all. Promise. Oh, is my phone ringing? Well. I gotta take that. I GOTTA TAKE THAT CLEAR BACK TO MY APARTMENT. At a sprint. I get better reception that way? Um.

Contemplating washing my clothes in my tub and blow-drying them,

Me

Dear Socks,

What do I do in my sleep that offends you so? What do YOU do in my sleep that is so offensive to one another? Why do I always wake up to find that one of you has run off, leaving the other lonesome and me extremely discombobulated? Can't we all just get along? Also. WHERE do you creep off to? I make my bed and there's not even a hint of you. Your mate and I are sad. And pretty soon I'll be sockless, or I'll be pairing people that just DON'T WANT TO BE PAIRED.

Reading too much into the thoughts and feelings of inanimate objects,

Me

All Peoples and Persons With Highly Offensive Body Odor,

I've been on the sidelines of a football game. I did clinicals for CNA. I have smelled terrible smells in my time. Today you taught me that college really does force me to go beyond anything I know. Thank you, too, for teaching me this solid fact: Drinking water while passing someone with excessive body odor is like inviting a monsoon of awful to give your uvula a splash. It can also kill you. I would know.

From beyond the grave,

Me.