Dear Typo,

I hate you.

I hate you like a massive raindrop falling randomly onto my cigarette from an otherwise decently blue(ish) sky.

I hate you more than that.

I hate you like an unknown cut from a piece of glass – the ones you don’t feel until they’re open and you’re squirming all over the place because it’s just so gross.

I hate you more than that.

I hate you with the intensity of the fire of a thousand suns.

I hate you that much.

I hate you because you bring out the worst side of me – the crazy one that doesn’t feel even slightly okay regardless of whatever else is going on. I hate you because you make me feel uncontrollably neurotic. You make me feel like the world is ending and that joke my dad made about an asteroid falling on my head really just might come true.

But I don’t hate you because you exist. I hate you because your existence is my fault.

As much as I hate you (oh, I hate you so much), I also . . . appreciate you. You’ve made me realize that I’m too hard on myself. You’ve made me realize that I spend too much time sweating the small stuff. You’ve reinforced that I’m only human at a time when finally starting to accept that being human is . . . good. It’s good. I make mistakes, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of.

And as much as I want to destroy your existence in the world, I know it would be better for me if I didn’t. People might not understand that. Hell, I’m not entirely sure that I completely understand it. But for some reason, I know you’re good for me. Because, while you may look like a mistake . . . are you really?

You’re good for me because no matter how badly I wanted to punch something or break Herald’s face (Come on, you know Herald – I’m clicking his keys all the time . . .), I did not do either of those things. And because I am still tempted to behave in such an irrational and completely unhealthy manner (Herald has brought only good things to my life, so why should I want to break his face? I can’t work without him), you will remain in existence. You’re still testing me, you see. Me letting you exist isn’t me letting you win. You’re letting me win by existing.

I know that striving for perfection is good, but I also know that it’s impossible. You’re a constant reminder of that – a little twinge in the back of my head (sometimes in the front). I could never be perfect. I might try, and trying is good. But failure is inevitable there and I need to accept that. The kicks in the brain that you’re giving me are good for me. So, while I may hate you, I accept you. Because in order to accept myself, I have to accept you. No matter how bad you are, you are good for me on the whole.

I can’t hate myself for not being perfect anymore, but I can still hate you a little bit instead.

Sincerely,

C

PS) Remember who created you. She can squash you in an instant if she decides to. Just keep it in mind. 🙂

Why couldn’t you have AT LEAST been the same word?

Dear previous owner of my cellphone number,

A year ago when I went into the store to buy a cellphone, I never could’ve known the trouble it would cause. It was my first awesome phone, rather than a passably cool phone. I was excited, especially given that I’d spent several years of my life cellphoneless and cut off from the majority of the world.

And then the calls started coming. I thought, naively, that they would stop – that they would stop after a certain amount of time had passed and all the people trying to find you, or your wife, or your brother (or whoever the hell you all are) realized that your number had changed.

They never stopped.

I do not appreciate having to have a spam-blocker app on my phone because of someone else.

I do not appreciate having to keep my phone on vibrate so the Doctor Who theme song that is my ringtone doesn’t cause my husband (or my sister) to wreck their cars while I’m riding with them. It’s always calls for you. People do not call me on my phone. People call you on my phone.

I do not appreciate waking up to a recording on my voicemail telling me that, if I am not you, to delete the message immediately without listening to it.

I do not like picking up my phone and hearing a recording about tax debt every other day.

I do not like vision centers calling about appointments for the female end of this trio of same-last-name-entity. Ten times in a year. How bad is your freaking eyesight?

I do not like all these recordings in general, as it gives me no one to speak with to inform them, “YOU HAVE THE WRONG NUMBER.”

But they do not have the wrong number, do they?

No, because a person called – it sounded like a creditor or someone of that nature – and had a very interesting talk with me about how you’d given them this number JUST A WEEK AGO. I do not like being interrogated (asked my name on my own freaking phone) or asked, “Are you sure you don’t know [NAME].”

Yes, I am sure I do not know you. But I do know that . . . I’m quite positive I hate you.

I suppose this is what I get for being picky and asking for a phone number with as many even numbers as possible. This is what I’m going to call karmic-jackassery. It is my own fault, in that way.

You shall go unnamed here, but I hope on all that is holy that I never run into you (or that I never figure out who you all are past your names) because I’m quite certain I would throw something at all three of your faces. No, I wouldn’t really, but I like to think about it sometimes.

STOP GIVING MY NUMBER TO PEOPLE YOU OWE MONEY.

Thank you.

Have a wonderful life.

–         C

PS) By the sound of the voice of the man I spoke with very recently . . . he was not happy. I suggest you attempt – VERY HARD – to get your ducks in a row. It seems like you’ve got quite a lot of them. Thank you, so very much, for sending so many of those ducks my way. My life is so much more complete and wonderful because of all the little duckies quacking around.

🙂