Dear teacher-like heels,
You are not good for running to the bus. You are only good for face plants, and you know, that’s embarrassing in front of a bus load of people. Also, you are loud.
We’re broken up. It’s been a slice.
Maybe I should try these:
Or on second thought….
Love,
Allergic to you.xo
Dear Guy with Dog* (you know who you are… actually, you probably don’t, since you don’t know who I am. Fyi: I’m that awkward chick who has your exact same schedule. You know, the one won’t look you in the eye and acts as if her ipod is the most interesting fucking thing since sliced bread. Yup. You got it, I’m that girl),
After much deliberation, I’ve come to believe that you are genuinely frightened of me.
What gave it away? Hmmm…
Well for starters, it was the way you urgently pressed the button as we stood at the intersection waiting for the light to change. I mean, jesus, it’s not as if I was standing there with a loaded gun (maybe). I’m surprised that button didn’t sink into the pole the way you were hitting it like you were the Duck Hunt gold medalist. Seriously, it took quite a bit of strength to not burst out laughing, but I managed to compose myself, because, well that’s what I do.
Anyhoo, good on ya, buddy. Congrats.
Here’s a tip: Try changing your schedule. That way I won’t be awkward and you won’t be running scared. Deal? Deal.
Love,
Allergic to you.xo
* <— HEY! WTF! This little guy means I’m shocked I even took the time to write this. Wowzers, batman.
You’ve got me thinking I’m having seizures, for real. Come on, now. It’s not rocket science, brain surgery, or hopscotch.
It’s toast. Simple as that.
And get this: The toaster even cooks it for you!
See, you put this bread in the machiney thing, set the lightness/darkness, push the button and…. holy shit, crunchy warm bread comes out!! Who knew life could be so grand?!
Even cartoons know the difference.
For instructions on how to use the toaster, please refer to your brain and/or google search the word ‘toast’. Seriously.
Love,
Allergic to you.xo
Dear moron #451,
If you ever clip your nails at your desk again, I will not hesitate to throw up on your face, rather than in my mouth.
Sick.
I’ll probably drop kick you as well, like so:
Love,
Allergic to you.xo
Dear gum chewers of planet earth,
Trust me, as a gum connoisseur, I appreciate the wonder of its chewy, bubble-blowin’, sugary fabulousness… but really, must I see your tonsils and directly into your esophagus while mistaking the sounds coming from your mouth as those of an elderly person going to town on a jar of peanut butter without their dentures? I mean, come on now. I know it’s hard to be an adult, but you might want to consider trying a teeny bit harder, so as to avoid looking like a moderately unbalanced farm animal (at least in public).
Love,
Allergic to you.xo
Dear hipster teenage dropout who laughed and pointed at me when I almost wiped out on a random spot of ice while crossing the intersection,
1. That was mean. I’m judgemental and bitchy too, but at least I have the tact to keep it to a delightfully themed blog.
2. Karma’s a bitch (likely the main reason you slipped and actually fell when you crossed that same spot). ZING!
3. For lack of a better reaction:
Love,
Allergic to you. xo
Dear moron who consequently forced another moron to give yours truly a fabulous papercut,
Not only did you continue to fondle me even though I kept moving so you had more room to read your stupid book, you swung around on the pole like the high-class subway stripper that you are and knocked me into that other moron who doesn’t understand the concept of personal space. Thanks for that. Since I had no time to react, I had to use other moron’s stupid book to break my fall so I could avoid my face being smothered in her crotch, which resulted in one bitch of a papercut. Instead of knocking you over head with the much deserved overpriced bottle of Pinot Noir that was in my bag, I strategically pulled your high-class subway stripper pole move back on you as I left the train, knowing that my bag that carried that overpriced bottle of wine would whack your kneecap. To avoid this type of random violence in the future, please attend my new seminar, “Idiot’s Guide to Public Transit Etiquette” (also known as “Seriously?”).
Love,
Allergic to you. xo
Dear woman in seat 16-E,
Your laugh was obnoxious and although I was offended, I was content with letting that slide, until you let multiple stink bombs blast out of your ass. I suggest you stay away from those Spanish titled green puffy snacks, because that’s probably what did it. I also didn’t appreciate that you hogged the arm-rest and had your feet sprawled across the invisible line into my foot area, or the fact that you kept suggesting to your husband (who is gay by the way – not that there’s anything wrong with that), that you should be in my seat even though I nonchalantly let my ticket stub fall so you would pick it up and notice that actually, I am in the correct seat and you just can’t read, but you know, whatever. I was mostly upset about the nasty smell you tried to murder me with, so much that I gave some serious thought to pulling down the emergency air supply. Stay classy, 16-E.
Love,
Allergic to you.xo
I’m going to pull a double whammy here, because frankly, I’m lazy.
Dear guy who used his snot as a hair styling product/girl who removed her eye crusties while wearing leather gloves,
Boogerboy: It was bad enough that you used the palm of your hand as kleenex multiple times. Was it necessary to rub it in your hair, which you then styled as if it was gel? Very attractive, rock star. Congratulations, you made me throw up in my mouth a little. I’ve also started to rethink my faith in humanity, but you know, whatever.
Crustygirl: I understand the concept of wearing gloves on transit so your bare hands don’t touch the germ infested pole. Unless you are obsessive, I would imagine that you don’t wash your gloves as often as you wash your hands. That being said, how exactly might you wash your leather gloves? Think about it, how many times have you worn those gloves? How many door handles, poles, and other random slimy things have you touched since then? And then…. you stuck that glove… in.your.eye. And then… you touched the pole, where your eye crusty was deposited. And then… Mr. Fancy-business-suit touched that same pole on the same spot where you deposited your eye crusty. And then… Mr. Fancy-business-suit used his teeth to remove his glove that touched the pole that touched your eye crusty.
Enough said (almost)…
I believe Boogerboy and Crustygirl would make a fine couple, and live infectiously ever after (with occasional visits from Mr. Fancy-business-suit).
In all seriousness, if you are going to do this kind of thing, do it in private or at the very least make an effort to not draw attention to yourself. Nobody needs to see that.
Enough said (for real).
Love,
Allergic to you. xo
Dear people who speak (at all times) as though they are in the gold medal championship round of I-bet-my-bottom-dollar-that-I’m-louder-than-a-mega-phone-loud-speaker-and-just-to-prove-it-I’ll-yell-out-meaningless-words-that-no-one-cares-about-such-as-CORN NUTS!,
OMFG!!! Please use your inside voice. This will save my socks from being stuffed like a pimento into an olive accidentally placed in your mouth…. or something.
Love,
Allergic to you.xo
allergic to you... 
