Dear Man Who Hands Out the AM New York at the Exit of the 53rd/Lexington E/M Stop,

[photo via *0ne*]

Dear Man Who Hands Out the AM New York at the Exit of the 53rd/Lexington E/M Stop,

You are one of the very best parts of my morning, sir. Every day, you are cheerful and ready to bring us the news, as well as a little philosophy. This morning, when I passed by you, you were giving entertainment advice: "If you have not seen Cirque du Soleil yet, NOW IS THE TIME. This show, it is called WINTUK. WIN. TUK." And for the first time, possibly ever, I considered it, due to your peppy delivery.

Other greatest hits involve:
"You go to work, but you are more than your job! Your job is not all you are!"
"Happy Wednesday, everyone! Middle of the week, we in the home stretch now."
"It's wet out today, you stay dry, folks! Take two AM New Yorks, one to read, one to hold over your head."

Thank you, brave sir.
Anna

Dear Ukulele,

[photo via uketeecee]

Dear Ukulele,

Seriously, I don't know why it took me this long to get to you. Maybe I thought you were gimmicky, or that I would look dumb holding such a tiny instrument, or that my lack of experience in the stringed instrument arena would hold me back.

But it turns out that I love you. And I want to play you all day long. I booked the conference room at my office so we can have some time together.

Until lunchtime,
Anna

Dear Scarves,

[actual scarves I just bought from Cheeky Vintage Closet]

Dear Scarves,

I don't know what's come over me. For so long, I guess I just assumed you were for wearing on one's head, and that was it. I could rock a babushka with the best of them, sure, but at work? Or out on the town? Never.

But then I discovered the sheer (NPI) joy of wearing you almost as a necklace: loosely tied, draped about my neck, not covering my best assets, but enhancing them with a lovely pattern or splash of color. I could wear my grey v-neck t-shirt every day and no one would be the wiser if I had a different scarf (until I started to smell, I guess).

What I'm trying to say is: I love you. Forever. I look forward to many years of good times.

Love,
Anna

Dear Fax Machines,

[photo via Abhisek Sarda]

Dear Fax Machines,

You still exist? Really? Shouldn't you be kickin' it with beepers and tape decks and huge effing boomboxes* in some sort of technological graveyard? But you're not, you're here, in my office, because of all the industries, healthcare is the most resistant to computers of any kind, and there are still doctors who literally say "I don't do email."

At least you sometimes provide hilarious spam, though.

Someday I will kick you,
Anna

*though I did see a dude carrying one of these, jammin', like 2 weeks ago and it was PRETTY DOPE

Dear Co-Workers,

[photo via Jason Nicholls]

Dear Co-Workers,

When I am sitting at my desk, holding what we refer to as a "telephone" up to my ear, not saying anything, that typically means there is someone at the other end of that phone, speaking to me. This, in turn, means that when you talk to me? I AM NOT LISTENING TO YOU. I AM LISTENING TO THE PHONE PERSON. Especially when all you are doing is asking me if you can have a piece of candy from the candy dish in front of my desk that has been placed there for the express purpose of sharing candy with everyone.

I'm just saying,
Anna

Dear Adobe Acrobat Reader,

[photo via Viktor Hertz]

Dear Acrobat Reader:

I realize you are indispensible and I cannot live life without you. But dude, just because you're indispensible doesn't mean you need to install a shortcut on my desktop every single time you install your stupid annoying minor version updates and bug fixes. Please realize, dear Reader, that no one ever, ever, ever opens you with a shortcut. You do not stand on your own, you are called up when a document is opened.

That's it, buddy. I know it hurts a little, but people want the document, they don’t really want you on your own. You are an accessory. So cut the crap and stop being so self-important.

Just sayin,
Dave

Dear Brain,

[photo via Liz Henry]

Dear Brain,

From what I understand about hangovers, apparently right now my dehydrated body is stealing water from you to rehydrate itself, causing you to shrink. This hardly seems fair. You're already so small in comparison with the rest of my body! Pick on someone your own size, body! Anyway, I'm trying really hard to drink lots of water so you'll return to your normal size and stop pulling on the membranes that attach you to my skull, because seriously, brain, that hurts me. But I know it's not your fault. We're in this together, brain, and somehow we'll get through it.

I'm sorry I hurt you,
Anna

p.s. confidential to Jameson: I still love you.

Dear Lady With Whom My Boss Asked Me To Schedule an Interview,

[photo via agirregabiria]

Dear Lady With Whom My Boss Asked Me To Schedule an Interview,

When you responded to my email inquiring about when you could come in for an interview that Thursday afternoon would be fine, I assumed that meant anytime between noon and 5pm. I find that most people, especially stupid ones, respond better to specific requests ("kiss me, you idiot") than general ones ("um, so, maybe we should hang out sometime or something"), so I proposed a time on Thursday: 2pm.

You responded that later in the afternoon was better. Now, it would have been nice for you to have mentioned that in your initial email, but I won't fault you for it. You were responding to an email that might end with you getting a new job, so you didn't want to step on any toes. That's fine. But when I countered with a proposal of 4pm, your response, frankly, baffled me:

Do not want to seem like a pain put can it be around early afternoon like 1pm or after 4pm?

Lady. This does not make sense. After laughing with my boss about this, I responded that maybe you should pick a time that works for you, and we could make it work.

When you said we should meet at 2pm, THE ORIGINAL TIME I PROPOSED, I about died.

Rest assured that my boss has heard this entire saga, laughed a lot about it, and will be going into your interview (at 2pm on Thursday) knowing that you are an idiot.

Good luck in your job search,
Anna

p.s. "Look forward on meeting with you" is not English. You may want to stop signing your emails that way.

Dear Probably-Scientologists I Encountered on Sunset Boulevard,

[photo via Snap Man]

Dear Probably-Scientologists I Encountered on Sunset Boulevard,

It wasn't clear at the time that you were probably Scientologists. That knowledge came later, when we told this story to our LA-resident friend Kelly. No, at the time, we just thought you were weirdo scammers with the most inefficient way of getting people's contact info ever.

"I don't want to be creepy," you said creepily, "But are you guys models?"

Dude. We are obviously not models. I easily weigh twice as much as an Agyness Deyn (okay, maybe, like, 1.75 Agyness Deyns) and am an inch shorter than her. My friend here? She's four months pregnant. Models, we ain't.

And that you thought we would think you were somehow involved in the modeling industry? Is laughable. Your outfit, sir, appears to have been cobbled together from dead stock from the International Male catalog, and your girlfriend? Might actually be wearing sweatpants. We're in Los Angeles, guys. I thought you were supposed to be cool. Guess New York wins again.

"I just saw you guys taking pictures of each other and having fun, and I thought you must be models." Neither of these things (taking pictures of each other/having fun), as one of my friends pointed out, are things models are known for.

Things Models Are Known For:
- being thin
- having pictures taken of them
- smizing*

That's kind of it. Models are not even really known for being "beautiful" anymore, because that whole "weird-pretty" thing is in. Have you ever really looked at Lily Cole? Obviously, she is super-pretty, but I bet if you saw her in real life, you would be like "Damn, child, your eyes is far apart!" But she's wide-canthal-distancing her way to the bank, so bully for her.

"Do you have a business card or something? I think you'd be great for this project I'm working on." There is no situation in which this phrase does not make you sound like a porn producer. In fact, maybe you were a porn producer. Although I think even porn producers dress better than you.

"Too bad you're in from out of town, the project won't be getting started for a few months." This is, I think, the most telling sign that you were Scientologists. They need several months to properly brainwash someone, so out-of-towners are less useful to them.

What I really wanted to say to you was: "I know this is a scam. You are not a modeling agent. WHAT IS YOUR SCAM?!" But I didn't, and I have to live with not actually knowing what you were alluding to. But I will gladly accept the theory that you were Scientologists.

Thanks for the story,
Anna (and Kristy)

*according to Tyra

Dear Whatchamacallit,

[photo via Michael K N]

Dear Whatchamacallit,

OH MY GOD, I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!!!

I'm really happy to see you, Whatchamacallit. Wikipedia says you were introduced in 1978, but I have a specific memory of being introduced to you at some point in my childhood, which I suspect was spurred by the 1987 reformulation with added caramel, as well as the 1989 commercial with a song that was sort of like a chocolate-inspired hallucination. I believe you were available in the ice rink where I took skating lessons* and were a delicious treat after I inevitably fell down. Then I lost track of you somehow...

And now you are in the vending machine at work. Awesome. Let's reconnect, Whatchamacallit.

Love,
Anna

*you might think I'm fancy for this, but trust me, I ain't. In retrospect, I think I was just really into the outfits.

Dear Renaissance Diner,

[image via come on, you know where]

Dear Renaissance Diner,

Hey. So, I've totally had an awesome time when we've hung out - wasted at 3am, eating ill-advised mozzarella sticks; hanging out with my friends after class - it's all been pretty great. But we're still getting to know each other a little bit and I just - well, I just wanted to bring this up before it becomes a thing, you know?

The chairs and tables in your atrium don't match. There! I said it.

And this isn't a case of just chairs that aren't a set. That would be totally fine. I would have no issue with that. You are entitled to express yourself just like anyone else. But, Renaissance Diner, your chairs are just, well, they're too short. I am a normal-sized, nay, larger-than-normal-sized woman, and even I felt like I needed a booster seat.

I don't want this to come off judge-y. You know I like you, and your full bar, and your lack of creepy waiters like some diners I might mention (*cough*Moonrock*cough). But seriously. Look into new chairs. Or new tables! Either way would work. I want to keep hanging out, but this could put a real damper on it.

Always Your Friend,
Anna

p.s. You should talk to your cooks about what "medium rare" means, too, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.

Dear RuPaul,

[photo via ryanisland]

Dear RuPaul,

I knew I loved you from the first moment I heard your hit tune "Supermodel (You Better Work)." Girl, I just realized that song was released eighteen years ago. If a baby was born on the eve of the release of that song, that child could be buying a gun right now. I'm not even really sure how or when I heard the song for the first time, since I was 11, but I like to think it was at the roller skating rink, where I could sashay and chante to my heart's content.

But then, Ru, you made my dreams come true with what is literally the pinnacle of reality competition-based TV shows, RuPaul's Drag Race. Though its second season is coming to a close, I will hold dear in my heart your words of wisdom throughout the show, such as "Don't fuck it up." Thank you for bringing your charisma, uniqueness, nerve, and talent to the world.

Ever jealous of your boogie,
Anna

Dear Everyone With Whom I Work,

[photo via deanj]

Dear Everyone With Whom I Work,

I know you all think I'm some sort of computer genius, but guess what? I'm not. Like, at all. I am just very good at two things:

- guessing
- Googling

So the next time your computer is mysteriously acting up? Just guess something. Or Google it. But please, don't bother me any more.

Respectfully,
Anna

Dear Cancer,

Fuck you.

(I dislike you so much, you don't even get a photo).