The wonderfully named American poet Edwin Arlington Robinson once said, "I shall have more to say when I am dead." Unlike Robinson, I have decided to stick to voicing my opinions while I'm still inhabiting the land of the living. Also unlike Robinson, I've decided to express myself through more short open letters rather than through Pulitzer Prize-winning poetry. Enjoy.
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Dear people who post about their drama publicly on the internet,
People are horrible about you. People say you are the worst thing about social media. People accuse you of being narcissistic, attention-seeking, and petty. People create snide memes about how you publicly proclaim your misery, awaiting the inevitable comment of 'u ok babe x', and reply with 'I'll message you'. People are frustrated by you, and they deal with that frustration by deleting you from their friend lists, hiding you from their timelines, removing your presence from their lives as much as they can, scrubbing their minds of you and your squabbles with your equally dramatic friends and your relationship that you just can't seem to move on from.
People are horrible about you. People say you are the worst thing about social media. People accuse you of being narcissistic, attention-seeking, and petty. People create snide memes about how you publicly proclaim your misery, awaiting the inevitable comment of 'u ok babe x', and reply with 'I'll message you'. People are frustrated by you, and they deal with that frustration by deleting you from their friend lists, hiding you from their timelines, removing your presence from their lives as much as they can, scrubbing their minds of you and your squabbles with your equally dramatic friends and your relationship that you just can't seem to move on from.
I am not one of these people.
Internet drama queens, I love you. I wish there were more of you in my life, and your ever-dwindling presence from my social-media feeds is one of my least favourite things about being an adult. Your bitchy tweets about your ex and your cryptic Facebook statuses about your friend who betrayed you keep me occupied at the times in my life when I most need you. During short bus journeys you are there. When the next episode of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia is buffering you are there. When I'm out with a friend and they go to the toilet, leaving me sitting alone with nothing to occupy myself with except pretending to text, you are there. For this, drama queens, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Please never change.
Yours appreciatively,
Rowena
Yours appreciatively,
Rowena
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Dear people who walk the same way to work as me,
It's a nice walk from Southville into town, isn't it? The river, Wapping Wharf, the multitude of bridges. Just lovely. The only thing ruining it is you, my fellow pedestrians. You and your inability to use standard British road crossings.
I was taught how pelican crossings work as a child, but clearly that's not a thing anymore because there seem to be vast numbers of people who don't know what the big, shiny, silver button on the side of the lights is for. I go through two such crossings on my way into work, and almost every day there are multiple people standing at the lights as I approach, staring into traffic, waiting expectantly for the stream of cars to come to a stop and allow them to cross, and nobody, not one single person in this group of four or five adult humans, has pressed the goddamn button.
Why? Why doesn't one of you just do it? I see the looks on your faces when I approach, in my natural morning state of dishevelled and grumpy, look exasperatedly at the unlit 'WAIT' light, and reach past you – because there is always someone standing right next to the untouched button, mark my words – and slam my thumb onto it pointedly. "Oh yeah," I imagine you saying as your dull eyes illuminate faintly with the dimmest light of understanding. "You have to do that to make the cars stop, don't you?" Yes. Yes you do.
Sort it out, please, before I start pushing people in front of moving cars.
Yours irritably,
It's a nice walk from Southville into town, isn't it? The river, Wapping Wharf, the multitude of bridges. Just lovely. The only thing ruining it is you, my fellow pedestrians. You and your inability to use standard British road crossings.
I was taught how pelican crossings work as a child, but clearly that's not a thing anymore because there seem to be vast numbers of people who don't know what the big, shiny, silver button on the side of the lights is for. I go through two such crossings on my way into work, and almost every day there are multiple people standing at the lights as I approach, staring into traffic, waiting expectantly for the stream of cars to come to a stop and allow them to cross, and nobody, not one single person in this group of four or five adult humans, has pressed the goddamn button.
Why? Why doesn't one of you just do it? I see the looks on your faces when I approach, in my natural morning state of dishevelled and grumpy, look exasperatedly at the unlit 'WAIT' light, and reach past you – because there is always someone standing right next to the untouched button, mark my words – and slam my thumb onto it pointedly. "Oh yeah," I imagine you saying as your dull eyes illuminate faintly with the dimmest light of understanding. "You have to do that to make the cars stop, don't you?" Yes. Yes you do.
Sort it out, please, before I start pushing people in front of moving cars.
Yours irritably,
Rowena
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Dear Facebook,
Can we get some more Pusheen the cat stickers for Messenger, please? I really like the ones you've already included but I've pretty much exhausted them at this point. In case you're stuck for new ideas, here are some that I've come up with that I think would help me express my true self when communicating digitally with my friends:
Can we get some more Pusheen the cat stickers for Messenger, please? I really like the ones you've already included but I've pretty much exhausted them at this point. In case you're stuck for new ideas, here are some that I've come up with that I think would help me express my true self when communicating digitally with my friends:
- Pusheen running
- Pusheen taking photographs
- Pusheen cuddling something, perhaps a favourite soft toy or another cat
- Pusheen lying down with a bloated belly after eating too much cheese
- Pusheen trying on leggings
- Pusheen staring blankly at the messy bedroom she was supposed to have finished tidying three hours ago
- Pusheen sitting in bed texting at 1am even though she has to be up at 7:30 for work
- Pusheen checking her bank balance, her face ashen with shock and despair
- Pusheen holding a balloon
After reading these I'm sure you'll agree that there's no excuse for not adding to the existing database. Please let me know how long I can expect to wait before these are implemented. I realise that good design and coding take time, so I can wait.
Yours patiently,
Rowena
Yours apologetically,
Rowena
Yours patiently,
Rowena
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Dear Deliveroo drivers,
Thank you for not outwardly judging me when I order enough food for three people and I am clearly alone in the house. I always expect you to look at me disgustedly, like I'm some kind of gluttonous pigdog, when I open the door and you're there with my order that's so large it required two carrier bags to bring to me. But you don't. You give me a look that says, "Hey, I get that it's hard to decide between a side of sweet potato fries and a side of onion rings and a side of garlic bread, and it's totally fine to order all three."
(Of course, for all I know, on your return to your colleagues you could be making cruel jokes about the girl from Southville whose trackies fit increasingly snugly every time she orders. But you don't do it to my face, which is the important thing.)
Yours gratefully,
Thank you for not outwardly judging me when I order enough food for three people and I am clearly alone in the house. I always expect you to look at me disgustedly, like I'm some kind of gluttonous pigdog, when I open the door and you're there with my order that's so large it required two carrier bags to bring to me. But you don't. You give me a look that says, "Hey, I get that it's hard to decide between a side of sweet potato fries and a side of onion rings and a side of garlic bread, and it's totally fine to order all three."
(Of course, for all I know, on your return to your colleagues you could be making cruel jokes about the girl from Southville whose trackies fit increasingly snugly every time she orders. But you don't do it to my face, which is the important thing.)
Yours gratefully,
Rowena
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Dear the lovely couple with the baby and the sausage dog called Willow who I met in The Spotted Cow a few weeks ago,
I'm really sorry I completely ignored your baby in favour of your dog. I was so happy that you saw me trying to lure your dog over to play with me and gave me some treats to win her love with. I also appreciated you chatting with me about her while I tried to contain my excitement that there was a sausage dog who now wanted to be my friend. You made my day, and to show this appreciation I really should have asked you something about your baby. I'm quite embarrassed that I didn't. Honestly, it's nothing personal. Your baby looked like a really good baby. I'm just way more into dogs than babies.
I'm really sorry I completely ignored your baby in favour of your dog. I was so happy that you saw me trying to lure your dog over to play with me and gave me some treats to win her love with. I also appreciated you chatting with me about her while I tried to contain my excitement that there was a sausage dog who now wanted to be my friend. You made my day, and to show this appreciation I really should have asked you something about your baby. I'm quite embarrassed that I didn't. Honestly, it's nothing personal. Your baby looked like a really good baby. I'm just way more into dogs than babies.
Yours apologetically,
Rowena
Image credit: Jim Makos
