Head Letters

And it is once again time to play “what’s whacked in Amy’s brain!”  Today’s version is brought to you via letters I’ve composed but have never sent.  Please, if anybody sees themselves in the the intended recipient, feel free to respond!




Dear blue-haired old gal who just swerved right, left, and right before finally settling on the left hand turn lane as she allowed the light to turn yellow and then red while only 25 feet from the line:


Sweetheart, you seem like such a such a sweet and darling senior citizen.  Why, oh why, must you suck skeezy monkey balls in traffic when I am running late to pick up the children from school?


Looking forward to your answer!  Just sayin’.  


Amy

To the helpless critter who met his maker as Steve’s best night out ever:


Dear bird–


Since the out of doors is your natural habitat, and the in of doors belongs to my fat housecat, what on earth possessed you to fly into my house, perch on my curio shelf and tempt poor Steve to the madness that followed?  That’s okay, little bird.  I forgive you.  Especially because, after settling you gently in a tree after capturing you with a cup, I think you fell out of the shrub and to your death, but after all that trouble to save your cootie carrying little keester, I didn’t have heart to look down and see if you were still twitching.


Should you come back in another life, and a cat decides to chase you?  STAY AWAY FROM THE FUCKING LIGHT!  


You’ll thank me when you live.


Amy

To the young supermarket employee who gave me a helping hand today–


Dear sir,


There I was, pushing my cart into the store, when suddenly all the wheels locked up.  The lock went away in a moment, and then, when I’d started throwing crap in the cart and it was halfway full, that fucker went full on prison lock down on me.  So I pushed the cart, wheels locked, down the aisle, while it made that obnoxious “NNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGNNNNNNGGGGHHHNNNN” sound.  


Everybody at three check stands turned around to look at me.


“I’m sorry!  It suddenly locked up!  I know, I know, it sounds horrible!”


And there I was, talking defensively to strangers, when you left your spot in line, where you stood off-duty, just trying to buy lunch, trotted around the end register, and brought forth the magic electronic wheel unlocker.


You didn’t even pause as you helped me out, and you probably had some place to go.  But thank you.  Seriously.  Seriously.  You are my hero.  And we can shoot the cart if you need to!


I mean it.  


Amy

To my son, who stuck his head between my head and my hands as I was tying something on his sister’s dress.


Dear son,


Of course I popped you in the chin.  Keep your head out of my way, darnit!


Still love you!


Mom!

To the cat:


Dear dumbass,


I bet you think you’re real fucking funny, typing some bizarre Twitter post and then hitting “Tweet”.  When people stop buying my books because they think I’m sniffing fertilizer and dragon snot and have lost my ever-lovin’ mind, we’ll be sure to cook you up for food first!  


Don’t try to suck up to me, I mean it.  Stay off my computer, or you’re what’s for dinner.


And hold still while I scratch you behind the ear.  You’re irritating me.  


I AM NOT YOUR SERVANT!


Amy




To the weather that’s taken this climate shift to heart:


Dear Summer, you obnoxious prick!


As I sit here in my kitchen wearing my bra and my shorts, sweltering in the EARLY OCTOBER HAMMER FIST OF HELL, I would like to remind you that in SOME places, climate shift means SHIFTING DOWN.  I’m just saying.  You have outstayed your welcome, now please move your lazy blistering ass and go the fuck away!


Just remember, 


Hot fat women are UNDERDRESSED fat women, and nobody wants that.  


I ain’t playin’.  HOw much of my cleavage do you want to see on a daily basis?


Don’t let the stench of my sweat pits hit you in the adenoids on the way out, and by no means stop and fondle the exposed cleavage.  


I didn’t like you that much in the first place.


Amy




To the OTHER season,


Dear Autumn,


Ditch the hot summer twinkie, catch an express pony, rent a canoe, and get your moderately temperate ass out here to my state.  Jesus, I make sweaters to honor you, you’d think a season could show a little fucking appreciation.


Get moving, dammit, or I’m changing my allegiance to Spring!


Amy




To the distinguished and cute as a button silver fox in the sheriff uniform who was hunting for banana yoghurt with me this afternoon, also in the grocery store:


Dear sir:


HELLO Plotbunny!  I’ll be seeing more of you, oh yes I will!


Don’t worry.  I’ll be kind.


Amy





To the makers of Fructisse Nutrise:for you!


Dear Hair Dye Company–


I think you should know, I have mixed two of your, ehrm, more flamboyant shades, and the result is something I’d like to patent as “Pop-yer-cherry Red.”  What do you think?  Will it sell?  


Well, I’d suggest your model be younger and cuter, but the color?  I’m sayin’!


Amy