Dear the Uber Driver Who Drove Me Through McDonald’s On the Way Home,

You were my age once. I’m sure you understand what it meant to me to have a large, hot, greasy fry in my stomach after a night of both good and irresponsiblity-inducing spirits, but we don’t need to talk about the latter.

The point is… you came in the night like a knight at the helm of a shiny, grey, armored land-boat… equipped with four doors and air conditioning. It was hot, was it not? My God… why did I even venture from my house? If I wanted to come home as wet (from sweat) as I did, I might as well have dived head first into the James River… that is, if the James River was a sweat river. A river of sweat.

But that’s beside the point.

What I’m trying to say is I was nervous about asking you if you’d mind going through the McDonalds drive-thru. It was 2 a.m. and you had a family to get back to. (Ugh, I hate ending sentences with “to.”) I knew that. My friend, Chris, knew that. And yet, the words came tumbling out of my mouth as if of their own volition. “Do you think we could go through McDonald’s?”

I prepared myself for a firm but respectful negative. But it never came. You were more than happy to find a McDonald’s! Oh, happy day! I’m not sure whether it was the elation or the alcohol, but I believe I offered—no, DEMANDED—to buy you a cup of coffee, as you were up late and clean out of caffeine. Plus, let’s be honest, the life of an Uber driver at 2 a.m. on Sunday mornings must really be something. You just never know what characters will pile into your car next. I’d love to read a book compiled of outrageous stories told by Uber drivers. New York Times’ Bestseller list, here it comes!

Anyway, you may not ever read this, but I wanted to thank you. I also wanted to apologize for forgetting your name. But, let’s be real, the minute I got home and inhaled my fries, I was out. But I thoroughly hope you enjoyed your coffee. It’s the least I could do for someone who managed to save me from a hangover the following morning.

Sincerely,

Stephanie

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Dear The Webbed Creature Squatting in Our House,

By “webbed creature,” I mean you, bat.

Angie, the young lady you quite nearly made piss herself (she might have) a.k.a. my roommate, has named you Brenda. You don’t deserve it, but she’s too compassionate for her own good. And, if we’re being honest, though I haven’t seen you in person (in bat?), you are pretty cute.

But it doesn’t matter…

You’ve still managed to run my roommates and me out of our house. It’s because of you that poor Wellesley has had to sleep, curled up alone in each of our beds, meowing, eating, biding his time. A tragedy. I hope you’ve, at the very least, befriended him. If nothing else, you’ve spiked his curiosity. What is this winged, hoof-less pig defying gravity? Because apparently our cat is familiar with pigs and the concept of gravity but not bats.

Look, you’re probably dead by now. The animal control guys told us you wouldn’t last more than three days. It’s sad really. We may have saved you had you revealed yourself again, but alas! You granted us one appearance, leaving Angie with nothing but nightmares, moist sheets, and possibly rabies—care to pay for the shots she’s now having to withstand? Did you know she can’t drink alcohol for nine months because of you? Because of your GERMS? Well, if you know Angie like I do, you know she will not abide by that. If something happens to her, we’re suing your corpse.

Listen, by the time I finally get home tonight, you better be gone—dead or alive. Either way, we’re selling your body at our yard sale tomorrow and asking for enough cash to pay for the medical bills. Not to mention, the landlord has been making us pay your rent… You could, at least, pitch in some green. And by “green,” I mean drugs. Just kidding. I don’t do drugs. No, really. I don’t. But do you? Have any on you?

Sincerely,

Stephanie

Dear Cedar Point,

You know how much I love you. I don’t even have to say it. But I want to thank you for having me last weekend… You were just what I needed–what I always need, let’s be real.

It had been six years since I walked your streets last. Six years since your lap bars kept me from falling 400 feet to my death. Six years since I questioned getting on Wicked Twister because the wind was making it wobble. Six years since my adrenalized screams added itself to your symphony of noise.

Look at that thing though…

You are my very favorite place on Earth, you know that? I could talk about you for hours with my friends, which I’ve done before. Because I love metaphors, you’re like a religion and I, your dutiful missionary. I want everyone to know of your Greatness. Okay, I’m done with that…

But seriously, you’re awesome.

Dat sun doe...
Dat sun doe…

18 rollercoasters? Is that how many you have? One that hits 120 mph in four seconds and reaches 410 (or is it 420) feet in the air?

Hell yes you do!
Hell yes you do!

Oh, and you sit on an island surrounded by Lake Erie? Casual.

Don’t worry; I will be back… many, many times. I hope to have my bachelorette party under your metaphorical roof. I hope to bid my single life goodbye whilst free-falling down Power Tower.

I REGRET NOTHING
I REGRET NOTHING

My favorite part about visiting you is how I feel when I’m breathing your salty, lake air. Happy. Content. Excited. Warm. Energized. I don’t know where this comes from, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that, when I finally work up the nerve to sell all my possessions and find a nice, soft place under one of your rollercoasters to live indefinitely, you won’t have your employees kick me out for trespassing.

This will be the view from my bedroom.
This will be the view from my bedroom.

I promise to look as un-homeless as possible.

Sincerely,

Stephanie

 

 

Dear The Boy Who Let Me Go Two Nights Ago,

I REALLY liked you. And from what you told me, you really liked me, too. It was the long distance, we said, that was coming between us. But while I would have dropped everything to make a first date/anything happen, drive thousands of miles and hours just to see your face, the feelings didn’t seem to be mutual. I had to practically beg you. Was I fooling myself? Should I not have believed all the things you told me over text, phone, and Facetime? All the times you told me you missed me more than you’d ever missed someone before? All the times you told me I was different, special? How do you let someone so “special” go then?

You told me you didn’t want to hurt me anymore, keep me waiting, wondering. You told me the timing was just off. I agreed. But do I really? Couldn’t we have made it work? During the four months we were texting, how is it that we never saw each other? 7 hours—that’s all there is between us. Living in a Universe so big, 7 hours is nothing.

Kindred spirits, we called ourselves. We talked about religion, politics, the Universe, our day, how much you wanted to kiss me, how desperately I wanted to touch you… and yet, there were those 7 hours.

I find myself getting angry as I write to you. Seven. Hours. That’s all. I have no choice but to believe you didn’t feel what you told me you felt. I know life was in the way, but what did you expect when you finally admitted your feelings to me? What did you want to happen then?

I tried. And failed. Did you even try?

You are one of the nicest men I have ever met, but there is no denying that I feel played, led on. A part of me regrets the last few months. A part of me wishes we had never gone down the road we did. A part of me wishes I didn’t have to sift through these anxious, angry, frustrated, disappointed thoughts I have now.

You said we should part ways because you were afraid of hurting me so bad that I’d rue the day I ever set eyes on you. Ironic, then, that a part of me does.

I would like nothing more than to spend even just an hour in your presence. That’s all I really wanted. And if you couldn’t give me that, I suppose letting me go, letting you go, was for the best. If I can’t get an hour of your quality time, how can I expect anything more?

I suppose, then, we did the right thing. I only wish you hadn’t said some of the things you did. I only wish I didn’t have your sweet whispers and promises to replay in my head every night before going to sleep, as I desperately try to figure out what I did wrong. Because, if you said you wanted to see me, you would have made it happen. Since you didn’t, then you must have not felt as strongly as you led on.

That, my dear, is what you’ve left me with.

Feelings of inadequacy. I do thank you, however, for showing me what I need to do now. I need to find my own self-worth inside myself, and learn to never rely on someone else for something like that. I plan to avoid how I feel right now in the future. I’ve indentified MY problem; it’s time I fix it.

I wish you the very, very best.

Sincerely,

Stephanie

Yes, I made a new blog

Okay, so I liked my “lessons” theme before, but I thought of a better one. So I made a new blog, and BROUGHT YOU ALL ALONG WITH ME.

Why “SincerelyStephanie”? Well, because I want this new blog to be a epistolary blog, made of letters…from me… to the people/events/things/ideas of the world. See, for the last year or so, I’ve been writing letters to get my thoughts out on paper. Letters to my ex-boyfriend, my roommate, my mom, my crush, my friends, etc. None of these people, however, have seen these letters, and they never will. They’re just a way for me to keep my thoughts, negative or positive, from boiling over and erupting inside my head and then melting my body down to a stub as they waterfall to the floor. Too graphic? Yes. Always.

So, on this blog, I’ll be writing a range of different letters: to the asshole who cut me off in traffic the other day, to my lovely used-to-be-roommate who is currently on her way to Portland to LIVE, to my stupid brother, to Republicans, to Donald Anti-Christ Trump, to my cat, to my headache I had last night that nearly killed me… AND SO MUCH MORE.

Honestly, I’m really excited about this blog, and I can’t wait to get started!

Sincerely,

Stephanie (starting to get it?)

Lesson #19: Adventure.

I know, I know… it’s been forever since I blogged. Don’t worry; I’ve hired my own personal Holy Mother, like the one from Game of Thrones, to follow me around and chant “Shame” throughout the day.

shame
Whatta bitch.

Life, man. It’s gotten away with me. But I don’t want to regret not writing about it.

I’m moving this weekend–really only an hour away, but still. It’s a transition, and I don’t do well with those. I’m moving out of an apartment in a quaint town to live in a house with one of my good friends and her sister in a bustling, up and coming metropolian. I’m ready for my new adventure. A new pool of people. New experiences and opportunities.

I only hope I like it–mainly because I don’t feel like packing up my life twice in two months!

pivot

I’ll be commuting to work, so about an hour each way. Honestly, I don’t mind it. The car is one of the rare places where I have room to think. I come up with my best stuff on the road, with my hands on the wheel and soft, indie music permeating the cool air.

I’m looking forward to the change.

Someone asked me recently, “What do you want out of life?”

The very first thing that came to my mind and then out of my mouth was, “Adventure.”

I want my life to be own great adventure, whether I’m reading a book by a fireplace or hiking up hills and deserts on the West Coast. I want to be happy, and I want to live adventurously. I don’t have to skydive or climb Mt. Everest. I don’t need to scale the Empire State Building or come face to face with the most gigantic alligator the world has ever seen. I don’t need to swing on vines in the rainforests of Costa Rica or hitchhike in Amsterdam.

I simply want to say “yes” to adventure. To take chances and advantage of opportunities that fall into my lap. I want to feel content with a nap on a Sunday but invigorated by the call on Monday. I want spontaneity. And joy. And laughter. And love. I want adventure in its purest form. I don’t want to take adventures for the sake of taking adventures, but because I really want to.

I want “doing nothing” to mean I’m doing SOMETHING. I don’t want what society calls adventure, but what it feels like to me.

I guess I just want to live. Happy and free.

adventure.gif

 

Lesson #18: Telling the guy who’s hitting on you that you brought your parents out with you actually works

I know, because that’s what I did. Guy hitting on you?

This guy, he was nice enough. He came up to me while I was dancing and wanted to dance. ATTENTION BOYS: GIRLS TYPICALLY LIKE DANCING BY THEMSELVES TO MUSIC. WE DON’T GO OUT ONTO THE DANCE FLOOR HOPING SOME HORNY GUY WILL COME UP BEHIND US AND START SWAYING. Seriously, this really gets on my nerves. Let me dance! I want to dance!

So, no, this guy didn’t do that, but he still tried to get me to dance with him. In an effort to avoid that, I just grabbed his hand, let him twirl me a couple times, and then went back to dancing. I don’t think he was satisfied, because he. didn’t. move. He just stood there.

dont make me dance.gif
Don’t make me dance…with you.

Then, deciding on a different tactic, he leaned in and said, “You’re the cutest.” I said, very sweetly, “Thank you!” Still, I wondered the cutest of what exactly? The cutest girl in the room? The cutest man in the room? As cute as somone can be with no grace or appeal? This guy wasn’t ugly or anything, but he WAS short, and as you all know, short guys creep me out. So I wasn’t all that interested.

Well, this guy wanted more. At this point, he’s hovering. No one likes a guy who hovers.

Even you Mike J.
Even you Mike J.

I had come out with my cousin and my good friend, Tim. My friend, Angie, and her boyfriend met us there. They were dancing behind me as this guy subtlely moved closer—to the point that I didn’t have the space to really dance anymore.

I turned to Angie and her boyfriend, Ramin, who read my face the moment I make it. Help me.

“We’re her parents,” Ramin says, happily. Angie nods. I nod, too, and add, “Yeah, these are my parents.” And before I can properly introduce them, my short man-friend has disappeared. I’m 99% sure he proclaimed “Ew” before sashaying away.

We had a good laugh, and then promptly left to find somewhere else to cause trouble. Me and my parents.

Lesson learned? Telling the guy who’s hitting on you that you brought your parents out with you actually works. Apparently, that’s frowned upon.