Dear dental hygienist who cleans my teeth: During almost our entire, dreaded time together, my mouth is wedged open and your big meaty paws are stuffed deep inside it, along with 10 or 12 various picks, hatchets, kickstands, hoses and other tools of your distasteful trade. So STOP ASKING ME QUESTIONS!!! No, I don't have any exciting plans for the summer, No I didn't go anywhere out of town over Christmas, No there's nothing new going on with me, NO NO NO! I understand you are one of those babbling fools who feels the need to fill every second of peaceful quiet with your inane chatter...fine. But why barrage me with questions that I would, by human design, need my mouth available to me in order to answer? And while we're at it, get some new questions. You've been reading off the same script of questions for 6 freaking years now.
Dear coworker who likes to tell me stories: I'm glad you find your life so fascinating; I am. I wish everyone were as thrilled with the minutiae of their daily lives as you are. But for the love of God, please do not try to draw me into your boring little circus. Oh my God, what's that? Your cat clawed your favorite sweater? FASCINATING! You were a total hottie in high school and all the girls wanted you? FASCINATING! You've been getting more buff now that you're spending more time in the gym? FASCINATING! Tell me more! No wait--don't. Tell me less--much, much less. Did you ever wonder why I suddenly race off to the bathroom every time you amble over to my desk with that "hey buddy, let's chat" air about you? You must think I have a bladder infection or a coke habit, but no, I'm just trying to avoid you. I will spend my entire 8-hour shift hiding in the bathroom like a prison escapee if that's what's necessary to avoid hearing one more anecdote about your creepy sex life.
Dear pothead friend of mine: You are so witty and interesting and great to be around--until 2.5 seconds after you get stoned. Then you are the intellectual equivalent of a burrito. While my very funny jokes suddenly sail over your fluffy, empty head, your own "jokes, " which make no sense at all, send you into giggle fits that go on so long a bystander would think you were having an extended seizure. Perhaps there are some potheads out there who can get stoned and still comport themselves as normal, functioning citizens, but you are not one of them. You look like a homeless middle-aged man and act like a 2rd grader who just discovered potty humor. I'd say I've decided to only hang out with you when you're clear-headed, except that it's too hard to speed over to your house before that 15-minute window of time ends.
Dear husband of mine: I adore you. I have no complaints about you.
Dear goofball customer #1: Have I told you how incredibly odd it is that you've written a poem to your dead cat, thanking him for "all the good times?" And that you're going to read it at his memorial service? Do I really have to tell you that's odd?
Dear goofball customer #2: Yes, you're in luck! I have all day to spend with you, listening to every last detail of your life. Go ahead, start from the story of your birth and continue on through to the present day, and don't leave anything out! Tell me all about your boring family, your kitty cat, the time you got overcharged for a purchase at the mall, and the strict diet your doctor has put you on. Don't even give a thought to the knot of other customers angrily shifting from foot to foot and tapping their toes, or to the towering stack of work next to me, about to topple over and crush me to death. I've actually been waiting all day for someone as interesting and talkative as you to come in and entertain me. Go ahead, describe that persistent back pain to me again.