Since you enjoyed open letters so much heres some more including one of my own as General Catz suggested! Enjoy
To the remote controls that reside in my house
Dear Remote controls that reside in my house,
For some time now there seems to be something not quite right between you all, Have you had an argument between yourselves? Or are you simply rebelling under present circumstances? What ever the reason you guys wont stay together surely I am within my rights and understandably anxious to know what is going on. TV remote, you and VCR remote where inseparable for the best part of 8 years, sure you had your differences and TV remote even kicked the pants out of your Battery case at one stage but you guys got over that and even seen each other through the difficult times when my daughters raison d’etre was to slobber you two in drool and gummy chew you at any available time. Was it the appearance of the satellite and DVD remote that set off your penchant for disappearing around the house? One time I even found TV remote in the bathroom, What was that all about?? I noticed that both you and VCR remote would stick to one side of the room and DVD and satellite remote would take refuge in the bowels of the armchair or sofa. I thought we where making progress with a 4 sectioned holster that draped over the armchair that it would bring a sense of family to you guys but there was always two of you AWOL.
I would like to take this opportunity to issue you all a warning. This carry on will not be tolerated in my house, the constant goose chase you give me on a daily basis is enough to enrage the common man. Either tolerate each others presence and stick together or else I shall be forced into making the drastic decision of buying a ‘one for all’ remote and hurtling you out in the streets, destitute and homeless. The most you could hope for out there in the cold uncaring world is that some 5 year olds find you and pretend that you are mobiles eventually getting bored and jumping on you like a cockroaches. Its either Shape up or ship out!
Your Aggravated Owner
To: My Cold
From: Your Host
04 • 13 • 06
Surely a recap of the past two weeks is unnecessary. No need to revisit in this letter the hacking, the aches, the nasal horrors, the thermal roller coaster, the throat like a skinned knee that must somehow find a way to swallow. Since you were there I will spare you redundant descriptions. Suffice it to say, you really did the joint up.
Indeed, once you had strong-armed my body into hosting your event, it was no longer just a matter of your little virus and my various immune responses. No: you had the chutzpah to invite your friends over and before long, my usual allies were leaving in disgust. Acne made a surprise appearance (oh hi!), causing the already put-upon morale to depart unceremoniously. Depression smoked in the driveway, never quite storming the place but menacing enough to scare off some of my more fragile associates: focus, motivation, optimism. Some straight-arrow friends of mine (self-respect, discipline), sensing the place had taken a turn toward chaos, also slinked away, shrugging their regrets as I stood helpless at the door. Hygiene remained only by force. By day three, it was clear that I was no longer calling the shots; you and your friends would leave when you were good and ready. In the meantime, I was welcome to sulk.
Cold, since you specialize in disruption, you may not realize just how unusual the past two weeks have been for me. I assure you: this is not how things normally go. There are certain tendencies, suspended during your stay, that characterize my life when my days are ticking along in their accustomed way. These may include but are not limited to: waking up in a neutral-to-positive frame of mind, thinking, smiling, caring at all what is going on with other people, reading whole pages of text at a time, listening when people speak, and having some inkling that a world exists beyond my own skin and preoccupations. You will no doubt be amused to learn that in my more self-satisfied moments, I have sometimes thought of these tendencies as spokes protruding from the central hub of something called My Character.
Well, Cold. Bravo: you have put the lie to this monumental arrogance of mine with tools no more sophisticated than a rhinovirus and some mucus! It took you about 48 hours to render me sullen, self-absorbed, humourless, dull, cranky, oozy, hopeless. Over the past two weeks you have laid waste not only to my plans and routines, but to my very disposition. They say the veneer of civilization is thin, and that the slightest unrest can bring out the barbarism that lies jut beneath the surface. If civilization is veneer, then my personality, it seems, is a substance so insubstantial as to make the denser gases snicker. The symptoms you provoke should, by rights, fall under the heading of "irritants" rather than "identity-manglers." But it seems I am susceptible, like an unpleasant cousin out of Jane Austen.
You may claim (although you have not demonstrated a flair for encouragement in the past) that it is not so unusual for suffering to change people. It is well known that while a few admirable souls are ennobled by pain, most are diminished. In Alain de Botton's snappy formulation, "Many unhappy syphilitics omit to write their Fleurs du mal and shoot themselves instead." This is fine as far as it goes, but it has little to do with my experiences of the past two weeks. Alas: my own recent suffering has been shot through with the awareness that sneezes and sinus pressure do not even deserve registry in the log book of human pain. Indeed, were a catalogue of my complaints recorded on a napkin, to use it as a bookmark in said encyclopedia of affliction would be an affront to world history. You, Cold, are nothing.
Sure, you may be strong compared to me (see above re Jane Austen) but before you grin that microscopic grin of yours, know this: the world contains illnesses that melt people's organs. The world contains illnesses that cause people to develop all the world's other illnesses. The world contains illnesses that devour people, bloat us, distend us, wither us, hollow us out, make us incomprehensible to others, make others incomprehensible to us, vaporize our memories, blind us, deafen us, immobilize us. (And these are only afflictions of the flesh! The matter of non-clinical heartsickness remains unbroached!) To one who knows true suffering, your powers would be--well. Let's just say it's rare to hear the crucified complain of splinters.
Now, I admit that my pronouncements of your weakness do little to elevate my own character in this sad story. Despite your low ranking among the world's ailments, you have beaten me in straight sets. You're pretty much rubber here, and I'm pretty much glue.
Even so, as my head has grown clearer these past few days, I have begun to feel there may be reason for hope--and not just the giddy hope of breathing through both nostrils. Cold, this matter of my character (see above re negligible film) has got me thinking. Consider: you were successful in laying waste to some of the personal attributes I thought inherent and immutable, not to mention winsome. You, recall, are a tiny bug.
I am a higher primate! My God--if you can banish my charms, surely I can stamp out some foibles? You took verve, cheer, empathy. Might I not send sloth, melancholy, selfishness packing? You heaved enthusiasm, thoughtfulness, curiosity overboard. Might not pettiness, ennui, smugness walk the plank? It took you just days to make me unrecognizable to myself. What might I manage in a year? Ten? Thirty? Why stop at virtue? Time travel! X-ray vision! Movable ears! Telekinesis! Animal languages! Invisibility! Underwater breathing! Esperanto! Pole vault! You have shown me the way: change is possible!
So go ahead, Cold, and tell your friends you laid me low. Tell them it took less than 48 hours for you to dismantle me. Tell them I wished my suffering upon children and the elderly. Tell them I sniveled and begged. Tell them I failed.
Oh but tell them I'm young.
Until next time,
AN OPEN LETTER
TO MY SISTER'S
October 2, 2006
Dear Psychotic Dogs,
I think you may have noticed my affection for other animals—including my own dog—and wrongly assumed that it extended to your snarling, demented selves. But you couldn't be more wrong; I utterly despise you both. Moreover, I'm astonished that you're too obtuse to sense the waves of hatred that radiate from my person like heat from a Ben Franklin stove whenever you have the temerity to poke your noses at my crotch or stand there barking witlessly at me for no earthly reason.
I thought dogs were supposed to be sensitive to human emotions, but I guess that's only normal dogs. Dogs afflicted with your particular brand of psychosis are stripped of empathy and possess only a predatory ability to sense fear or vulnerability, especially in children.
Which brings me to why I feel that you two are the most despicable creatures a kind person was ever misguided enough to rescue from the pound. I first began to hate you with the white-hot heat of a thousand suns when I caught you stalking my 2-year-old child like a pair of ravening velociraptors. Since it happened five years ago, you probably thought I'd forgotten it. But let me tell you something, Psychotic Dogs, I will never forget it. I was standing right there, for Christ's sake, talking to my sister and watching my sweet, innocent little girl toddle around the yard, bothering no one. And then I saw you two coming at her with murderous intent. Fortunately for you, I was able to interpose myself between you and my daughter before you could do anything more than scare her. For that reason and that reason alone, you are both still alive.
Psychotic fleabags, you have given me plenty of reason to go on despising you ever since. I hate the cowardly and hypocritical way you wag your tails at people when they're facing you, only to then take a nip at the cuffs of their pants the moment they turn their backs. You are sneaky and deceptive, which are bad enough qualities in any creature but seem even worse in dogs, which are generally noble, honest, and kind. You bring discredit to your entire species, Psychotic Dogs.
I also resent the fact that you've become a bone of contention (if you'll pardon the expression) between my sister and me. I am tired of her making excuses for your brainless thuggery. I've heard more times than I care to recall about your lurid puppyhoods before my sister rescued you, and you know what? It excuses absolutely nothing as far as I'm concerned. Do you think my childhood was a bed of roses? I assure you, Psychotic Dogs, it was not. And yet I manage to get through life without resorting to the vile behavior that is so regularly observed in you. I believe that we are responsible for the obnoxious behavior that survives our childhood, and that principle definitely extends to the animal kingdom.
Hear this, Psychotic Dogs: If I ever catch you menacing my child again, I will pick up the nearest lawn chair and wrap it around your thick skulls. Then I will pull up two tomato stakes from the garden and drive them through your black hearts with a croquet mallet.
You need to remember that even though you undeservedly live a pampered and privileged life by taking cruel advantage of a kind soul (whom you repay by occasionally biting), you have no real legal status in this country. I could kill you with impunity. Sure, there are animal-cruelty laws, but, believe me, I could mount a justifiable-homicide defense bolstered by legions of gardeners, pool men, neighbors, and assorted others unwittingly drawn into your malevolent web. I would not only be acquitted but would probably receive a civic award for dispatching you. So never cross me again, Psychotic Dogs. It may be the last thing you ever do.
Sherry H. Ciurczak