To Whom It May Concern

You know - every time I take someone to see one of my former cube-mate’s shows I end up never being able to take them back. I mean, like every time. Something always happens, and then I have to convince a whole new group of people to join me out there so I don’t feel like an idiot.

You were entirely responsible for making this happen again. I took my two homegirls from work out there in the Western Suburbs (the very end of the Earth to them) to listen to my former cube-mate play some cover songs and drink some beers. I really like the bar he plays at - it’s just a normal, fun place. It’s also right next to the train, and if you get invited out by me, there’s about a 85% chance I’ll be inviting you to a bar near a train. I don’t understand this either. I guess vagrants make good drinking partners.

REGARDLESS - We noticed your group of friends, a bunch of slighter older than us dudes, who had apparently come to the bar directly from golfing. Curious. You sat down near us and then another guy started talking to us. You explained to us that this was a bachelor party, for your friend here. A firefighter who was getting married in Hawaii next week. Firefighter explained to me that this place was more his scene than strip clubs and such and I thought in my head, These are nice boys. They like drinking, but not sluts.

Firefighter left and yet, you stayed, sitting next to my friend. We mostly ignored you. Then you got a little touchy. My other friend attempted to get rid of you by talking to you - well, alright - nearly insulting you, but you didn’t budge. I look over to see my friend grabbing your hand and putting back on your side. I was surprised. She never goes anywhere without her wedding rings, which is she was playing with as you edged closer. SO YOU’D GET THE HINT.

“What’s going on?”

“DUDE!! He just tried to put his hand up my shirt!!“

Before we even had a chance to move her or get upset, you passed out, with a bizarre smile on your face. We started laughing so hard, I could barely hold my camera straight.

I know it’s blurry, but I couldn’t keep the camera straight.

My other friend shouted to the rest of the bachelor party - “Hey - help him!!” One of your friends came over and woke you up. We slammed the rest of our beers and left immediately.

I wrote this all to you, because I have a feeling that you’re a nice normal guy. Perhaps a little lonely. I’m sure that had you not been so drunk you’d fall asleep in public, you’d never try to touch a girl WHO IS TOTALLY MARRIED. But, friend, you picked the wrong crew. A married girl, and a blogger with an itchy shutter finger.

Lesson learned? I can only hope.

To be honest, I don’t know if you’re still alive or not. Scratch that, I’m confident you still are - terrible hags like you never die. I’m actually counting on doing the same myself. By the time I was in your class, in 1990, you were already old. And not like how I kid that my mother is old. Like, actually old. Heck, I don’t know if senility has settled in as a permanent house guest in your reality - so who knows if you’d even know who I was. But I remember you.

Listen, I know you were just sitting behind that desk, marking big red X’s on the calendar until you reached the day you could retire at 75% of your salary.

You could have spared some kindness. You could have managed to pull a little love out of that leathery hide. I know it’s possible because I have a job that requires nearly an infinite - nay, superhuman - ability to pretend like THAT just didn’t happen and press on. Whatever THAT presents itself. And yet, I’m usually able to laugh at the end of most days.

Oh, that’s right, despite your efforts to crush my soul, I lived to adulthood. And be a functional member of society.

It’s not that I’m very bitter about 18 year old educational injustices. There would be plenty to choose from - having to write I don’t take instructions from Michael M, I am not a monkey, and Two’s company, three’s a crowd hundreds of times stick out in my mind. Turns out, you weren’t really the worst teacher I’ve ever had. I just wanted to call you out, personally on one specific event that I think turned out unexpectedly.

I’ve been thinking about something lately, and I don’t know exactly what spurred it, because you’d think that I’d have noticed this already. Do you remember that time that you kept our class inside for like, ever (one week) during recess? I know it’s hard to keep track, because I’m fairly certain you did this at least once or twice a year, just to see which eight year old would crack under the pressure first. Regardless, you did do this - you kept us inside from recess during probably the most perfect week of weather we’d ever never be allowed to experience.

I was an indignant nearly nine year old by then. And absolutely outraged. How dare you do this to everyone? This was an injustice, complete and without remorse. All of us weren’t misbehaving. Think about the laws of statistics - when in the good hell could you EVER get 20 or so third graders to be doing the same fucking thing?! Especially when that thing was acting up during lunch.

I was incensed. Livid. I complained to my mother, who surely was thinking: Please, God, make this stop. Remember that time I asked for a smart child? I didn’t mean it, I take it all back. With a typical eye roll (I don’t know where I got it from), she told me that I’d have to fight this battle alone if I wanted to fight it. Also, being that she was a teacher, and therefore part of the Vast Educators Conspiracy, she didn’t really believe me anyway.

And she said, “Jesus, I don’t know, why don’t you write her a letter or something? Look at this room, do you think we’re Rockefellers here? Pick this crap up!”

Write you a letter? My God, it was like my little head exploded. Yes, that was exactly what I could do about you.

So I sat and scribbled the most sincere, powerful letter my chubby fingers could muster. I was burning on the inside. And, wondering if my family would notice I went missing, I gave it you, although I don’t have any recollection of exactly how that happened. I picture it going like this: I walk up to your desk being kinda snotty and saying “This is for you“. Then plop the letter down and quickly run back to my desk, looking behind me in case you had a bow and arrow back there.

Later, you called me into the hallway. You said you’d gotten my letter and explained your reasoning for the false imprisonment: The lunch ladies said the whole class was bad, and so she punished the whole class. I called bullshit immediately, and told you that it simply wasn’t true. Only some of the kids were being bad, and I didn’t understand how you could thing one of those kids was me. Bitch.

The final resolution is sort of anti-climatic, because you really didn’t care about what I thought. EIght year olds really aren’t prized for their understanding of discipline techniques and group dynamics.

But do you want to know something? That snotty eight year old turned into an angry 26 year old and is still writing letters to bitches the world over. And every time I take someone to task, it’s like I’m taking you to task all over again and it is so fulfilling, I can’t even describe it.

PS: To mothers of dramatic eight year-olds: Believe them when they’ve claimed an injustice has been done to them. And then make them do something about it. They’ll either shut up because it wasn’t really very important or do something about it. They’ll be better for it.

When I do find myself going out to a bar, which happens occasionally, I usually frequent places where I am comfortable. No strobe lights, no lines, no blasting bass, no beauty pageants, AND ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY NO COVERS. NONE. NO COVERS. I WILL NOT GO INSIDE. Unless you’re going to see live music, I’ll never, ever go out with you again if you want to go somewhere that charges a cover. The places I might be found in could be construed to be “dives” by others. I guess a certain proximity to the commuter trains and a significant population of the other patrons sporting mullets means it’s a dive, then, I guess you called it.

Nothing that’s terribly shady, but there’s usually a more interesting crowd, cheaper booze and I can go in sweatpants. “Oh, you’re exaggerating,” you say. No, really, a few weeks ago on a Wednesday I showed up at a bar in my favorite sweatpants, which are actually gigantic men’s fleece pants from Old Navy. It really was about convenience, because my friend and I were working out before going to a bar, which used to be a house. Hey, lay off, it was 75 cent draws.

All of this was to tell you girls your presence was significantly disruptive to my evening. My friend and I were enjoying an evening at one of her favorite places, a sports bar in a strip mall. Located fantastically next to a hair salon, taco place and a phlebotomy lab. So anyway, we were almost done with our first bucket of Bud Light when you three showed up.

I was immediately blinded by your shiny shirts, which left nothing to the imagination. Your goods were prominently displayed for the seven or so men in the bar, several of which were aging married men and the rest of whom were in a large group of friends. You know what, I’ll just call it “overdressed”. Yes, that’s it. You all were overdressed for this place. With your fucking clicky shoes and small, trendy Dooney & Burke purses. The ones with the graffiti style writing, not the sedate initials. Because all of your clothing had to be as obnoxious as possible. Leave no room for understatement.

You’re right, you live in free country and you can show up to a bar any old way you please, just as I had. You just seemed out of place. Like you WERE going to go somewhere else, but this strip mall sports bar was just a better decision. How ridiculous is that?

One of you kept chatting up the door guy, and my sincere hope was that you knew him. Part of me wanted to go over there in my college sweatshirt and jeans and say, “Listen, honey, you and your trailer bleach job and tig ol’bitties can go ahead and find somewhere else to stink up, because normal people drink here.” Normal people who just threw up in their mouths a little bit.

But I knew such a thing would be fruitless. Trying to convince any one of you to embrace modesty would be a waste of my time. Ludacris is no philosopher, but he did say that you couldn’t turn a ho into a housewife, due to the fact that hoes don’t act right. I believe this is true.

PS: YES, I WILL LOOK CONDESCENDINGLY AT YOU WHEN I AM DRINKING BUD LIGHT. I WILL TAKE YOUR PICTURE WITH YOUR FRIENDS, BUT I WILL NOT DO IT WELL.

So you know all those things I had on my sidebar? Yeah, they’re gone. Like, poof. I guess the “widgets” system has changed since I last edited them. So that was awesome. And there’s nothing there. And now I have to redo links and such. And then get it to save, because apparently, that’s a function THAT IS NO LONGER AVAILABLE.

Right now, I’m searching out some answers on the WordPress Forum. Jesus Christ. A forum. I have no business in forums.

What I saw yesterday at the hospital was not what I expected. My coworker and I arrived at your room in the ICU at about 11am, after getting the call from the hospital. They wanted to know who was power of attorney for you, what your “code status” was, all these things that made your condition seem very serious. 

The coworker I was traveling with had seen you last night, and you were talking - of course. There were hardly moments when we could get you to stop talking - unless you were asleep. And we loved that about you. Occasionally exhausting, it was more often endearing. There was a particular cycle of questions, mostly about the status of our domestic pets and their eating habits, and sometimes their physical descriptions. You talked to everyone you saw. Babies, the elderly - anyone within sight. If we tried to take your hand or guide you to an exit, you would angrily pull your hand away and solider on.

We arrived at the hospital and your brother and sister-in-law were already there. We went into see you and the nurses asked us to leave. There were an enormous amounts of tubes and wires, much more than the last time I saw you after you fell. There was even a ventilator. A ventilator.

Shortly after arriving, we were ushered into a small conference room and the doctors told us what was wrong. They told us it was over. The fight was over. Your body had betrayed you, much like it had 64 years ago. My coworker and I left to smoke outside while they made their decision.

We talked over you after they took the ventilator out and all there was around us was time. Your breath was labored, and slow, complicated by the fluid in your lungs. The morphine drip was so loud. It took almost two hours - two trying hours. Two hours of us talking, telling stories about you and intermittently crying. You passed with my hands grasped on your hands, my messy tears clouding my vision.

There is a part of my cold, black heart that is bright red and beating. It beats for you and the other women you lived with, for all the other people like you that I know, my friends and my family. A lot of people aren’t going to understand this bond we had. It’s hard to describe, you know that. You just get so close. I know that you know how much I cared about you, I know you know I was there until the very end, right there with you, holding your hand like I did in your life. I couldn’t have let it happen any other way.

PS: It’s been one year, and we still miss you.