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.