An Open Letter To Those Who Don't Care For My Writing

Dear (insert your name if you don't care for my writing),

Let me first say that you were destined to hate me. How could you not? I call it The Blind Side syndrome. I hadn't gotten a chance to see the film for myself before dozens of people, in overenthusiastic squeals, told me I simply had to see it. It was sooooooo good! After a while, I built up a nice little resentment. Not only was I not ever going to see it, but I looked down on people who did. Assholes. Telling me what movie to see. I will not see that movie, and if I did, I'd hate it. And if I liked it, I'd hate it more. I'll show you.

So, I get you, is what I'm saying. Which probably makes you hate me more.

How many times could you hear your friend/co-worker/family member/Starbucks barista say, "Oh! You have to read Bridget's blog! It's sooooooo funny!" I'm even a little bit suspect when someone tells me this, and it's supposed to be a compliment. Instead, I find myself thinking, "What's the deal? Do you owe me a compliment for something I said once upon a time? Did I tell you that you had a nice house or something a while back? Did my mother tell you to say that?"

But, they wore you down. You don't appreciate not being a part of the dinner chat, and last night your family members were all sniffing things due to this damn blog. That was it. You had to see what was going on.

By the time you had typed the name of the blog in the search bar, you were already pissed. "maretsplayground.blogspot.com" What a stupid name for a blog. These damn bloggers and their stupid names. And what's a "blogspot?" That pissed you off, too. Sounds like a blood clot, which would probably be funnier that what you were about to read.

You'd heard people talk about posts on my blog, and they were laughing while doing so. In fact, sometimes they'd actually be tearing up or bending over- such was the force of the laughter. "I just had to read this out loud to my husband!" "How does she come up with such stuff?" "That girl is so funny."

Now that you're reading it for yourself, you're not only disgusted, but considering getting all new friends and family members. What kind of assholes find this shit funny, anyway, right?

I get it.


It's because of you that I refrained from making tonight's post about my movie-mind and the things I see in there when I close my eyes, like

Water swirling round and round down a tub's chrome drain.
White rabbits playing leap frog in a field at dusk.
A hand holding tightly to a cartoon bomb, fuse lit and sparkling.
A throat that's been slit.
A tiny violet.
Birds preening each other.
A woman, bent down- hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath as the bus she she needed to catch speeds down the street.
A boy, picking his intestines up off the floor and attempting to squeeze them back into a slit in his belly.
Sunlight reflecting off a shiny car antennae.
Marbles spilling from an open mouth.
A man splitting a single hair with an axe.
Grown ups in footie pajamas, sleepily shuffling down the street, blankies in one hand and lattes in the other.

I mean, what kind of self-indulgent crap is that? I agree, if there is a hell, I'll be sent there and will be forced to listen to people try to recall their dreams, which we all know, is really only fun for the dreamer, not the listener: "And then....I was.....outside......but it wasn't really outside.......and you were there.....but......you were a tree......no! wait! that's not right....you were a cloud....that's right! a cloud!.....it was sooo cool."

What really irks you is that I have an actual job. I'm old enough to have an actual job and I can't seem to hear the word Pujols without laughing. For crying out loud. It had never even occurred to you that Pujols had anything to do with either poo or holes. What kind of moron is teaching our kids today? Right? Right?

First kiss (who cares), holding in my pee (gross, and again, who cares?), belly button ranting (just plain weird), eyebrows crawling around and night (I must do drugs),  clicking like if you like me (how low must my self-esteem be, anyway?), "freewrite" hippy writing bullshit (again, so self-indulgent it makes you want to puke), sniffing things (either I'm weirder than you thought or I'm really desperate for writing ideas.) And...that was 20 minutes of your life you can never have back again.

I can see why your eyes became increasingly squintier and your brows scrunched while reading on and on. I can see, also, why you were moved to slam your laptop shut and take it into the bathroom, where your warm bath was now past lukewarm even and verging on cool. I can see why you swung your laptop at your cabinet chest, spilling all of your lotions and ointments and anti-anxiety meds and floss that you never use and toothbrush with the flared-out bristles and toothpaste (where is that cap, anyway?) and cuticle clipper.

I can see why you spun around and plunged your laptop into the bath water and held it there so tightly that your knuckles became white. I can see why you held it under water until the last bubble escaped from what was its whirring motor. I can see why you crawled, fully clothed, into the tub, your face now streaked with angry tears, and held the laptop to your chest. I can see why you sat there, rocking gently, unintentionally creating little waves in the water.

Some things are just bound to piss you off.

Yours truly,
The Playground In My Head