woman on the 2

Dear old woman on the 2 train,

Geez louise, I wish I was as old as you so that I could possess the same amount of entitlement that you seemed to have as you hissed at me "Did you see my feet?" as I tried to squeeze into that tiny space of seat next to you during rush hour. I know that I mumbled a quick 'I'm sorry' but for real? I'm sharing breathing space and my butt is being touched by the kid's comic book behind me, so please forgive me for grazing- for that's what it was, a graze- your foot a few evenings ago. If somehow, it did however cause your arthritis in your big toe to flare up to abnormal proportions, I really indeed am sorry and advise a hot bath, an advil and a healthy dose of nagging heaped upon your grandchildren.

Coridially,

Jessika

well here we are again

Dear big city,

You're not as big as I used to think you to be. Your girth has shrunk and I'm a bit less lost among your many subway branches. I haven't fallen up many subway stairs lately or face-planted on the cobble stones, but I'm sure you're to remedy that soonly. Big city, I've decided to grow up a bit and use capital letters when grammatically required to do so. I suppose my adolescent phase of rebellion has started to fade away. Then again, maybe not. On Thursday I'm warning you that I'm going to attempt to wear high heels. The last time I tried to do this at a fancy menswear boutique halloween party, your cobblestone streets laughed as I tripped three times in succession and an old woman tried to help me up as I embarrassingly kept puttering along. Please don't do that this time. Please oh please. I must try to wear heels at least once in this city and mildly succeed. And I can't promise to pack a pair of spare flats this time.

Big city, you have yet to send Mr.Darcy to me on the subway. Is there a reason for this? Probably so. Just to let you know I have recently stopped looking to fall in love with disheveled men on the subway. It's probably because the lumberjacks have come out of hibernation all baby faced and groomed. Also, I've had my nose buried in Jane Eyre for the past few weeks on the 2 train and I am NOT looking for any Mr.Rochesters thankyouverymuch.

Also (at this point I feel like Big City should be synonymous with 'Santa') can you please in your magical small world/cities collide/sidewalk conversation-type way get me a job or at least an internship with Kickstarter or some fabulous production company where I can be around creative people who love what they're doing and like to play jokes on each other and be productive and have holiday parties? That would be lovely.

Also, the subway prophets are starting to weird me out. Are we at quota yet for this summer? Get back to me on that one...I had a guy shouting Hallelujah at me while I filed my nails (BIG MISTAKE).

Big bear hugs,
Jessika

7a plus some

dear michael (i believe that was your name),

you had the kindest eyes that i've seen in a very long time. and you actually made eye contact when you spoke to me about the most trivial things: would you like some more water? how would you like that burger cooked? sorry i spilled water on you shoe.is there a storm coming tonight, etc. etc. etc. your smile was gentle too, so thanks for being so darn lovely. 

                                                             -j

ps. also, your having a well-groomed mustache automatically added a bonus point in my book

Dear BDFV/ACE

Dear New York Transit Gods,

Please send more cute, non-gay boys who read books and don't listen to Eminem out loud on their phones into your subway domain. The amount of soulmate prospects is becoming staggeringly low during the past few weeks and I am crest-fallen. I'll make you a deal, MTA gods, I'll even stand to be humiliated by getting my foot caught in the door of the train (like that one time, bitches) if you send prince lumberjack to rescue me from quite a dramatic death. Deal? Hope I have not offended you, because heaven knows I don't want to accidently sit on anything wet on the subway seats.

Love,

J

Questions in the tube...

Dear hair plugs,

Did your wife/girlfriend/best dude REALLY tell you that hair plugs were a good idea? Eww.Gak.Vom.com. Seriously I couldn't figure out what organism was growing on your head at first--I thought--maybe, just maybe you had a hair gel accident or...something. But no, I can't make excuses for your horrible hair plugs. I mean. It looked like 2.5 inch nappy man-weave. And that's just wrong. Also--if you're going to get hair plugs, you might as well cover the whole surface area of the balding spot instead of just half--even if you ARE trying them out (which I don't see how you can) cover up that whole palette, man! Tobias Funke didn't pull it off and neither do you. Take my advice and just shave the whole darn head. I promise, and oddly-shaped head underneath there is much preferred to whatever hair-pluggish organism is thriving in your bald spot at the moment.

With hopes that you find Rogaine or buzz-clippers,

J

a crutch, man, a crutch??

Dear sir,

How old are you? Come on, out with it. I'd say, early fifties, no? A dad-ish age, huh. Well, I would be quite ashamed of myself if I were you sir. Sitting in traffic leaning on your horn when a construction crew is busy unloading bricks in front of you. It's a one-way street, sir! And oh-my-heaven-forbid that there are other people working when you with your crazy hair and glasses decide to drive your spiffy little honda down Degraw Street. That, sir, should be a crime. Oh! And may I commend you on your excellent critical thinking and communication skills! Firstly, it was so ingenious that you decide to lay on your horn whilst the gentlemen obviously have their hands full of bricks. That really got the point across and didn't end up annoying anybody at all. But your genius laying-on-horn plan failed and so, of course, you go on to plan b. A crutch. You grab a crutch (not two, but one) out of your car and wave it wildly in all the workers' faces. Really? Really. Wow. I guess that did it. I mean, I was laughing watching you outside my window when you finally got your way and how you slammed your little Honda door and angrily buckled your seatbelt and THEN proceeded to hold up everyone behind you by flipping the workers the bird AND saying f-you in sign language--yes I do know that sign (thanks Mr. Holland's Opus.) 

Sir, I hope your day ended up just beautifully. And I hope you have a reason to use that crutch--because if you're pretending to be handicapped ON TOP of what you just did. Well. I have no words for you.

Thank you for being oh-so-entertaining, crutch-man.

J

Last stop on the G train

Dear Kensington pizza shop,

You made my day. Maybe it was because these girls with thick New York accents came in screaming because they hadn't seen the gal from behind the counter in a few days (the girls were 'in the woods on vacation, eating twigs and berries and shit') Maybe it was because you lured me into writing this with your amazing cheesy pizza and just the right amount of pepperoni (you know how just 2 extra can be too many?) or maybe it was because you were bursting with the type of family that you get to hand-pick from the thousands of strangers that you come into touch with every day. Maybe that was it...that and the guy at the counter called me Senorita. Yep, you got me there.

All my love for your cheesy goodness,

J