A review of "Cousin Vinny" Agnello.

Dear Louis Anthony "Cousin Vinny" Agnello (or "10 reasons I asked if there was another way out of Barnes & Noble"),

1. I am not public property able to be touched because I'm in your space. Just because we are inhabiting the same area does not make me less than human or give you the right to just touch when you feel like it. Did I give you permission?

2. Bragging about your Stripping days in the same breath as you're bragging about how wonderful your book is does not make me want to read it. Especially when you keep saying you are a "messenger" (the "from God" being implied by your "I have some spirituality in me" comments).

3. You don't even KNOW ME, so how can you "guarantee" that YOUR book is going to be my "favorite book?"

4. You're trying really hard to get me to buy your book, but I feel like you're really just trying to explain to me why your penis is the biggest the world has ever seen. And I'm sorry, but I'm just not buying it.

5. Memorizing your laminated accolades doesn't make you seem cool, it makes you seem pathetic.

6. I am half tempted to read your book simply to give it a bad review. Seriously, you tell me how the writing is "the best" and that your story is "the most original" (fun fact: You're not original) and that the copies you are trying to hock are going to be "collector's items" because you are leaving that particular publisher, but I read a sample while I listened to you ramble and your writing style is similar to a 13 year old's. Seriously, I've seen better writing styles in Children's books. You write like you talk. Not very well.

7. You're visiting small towns in the Bible belt, of course this book is going to "sell like hot cakes."

8. Don't talk to me like I'm an idiot. You play like you're the "Devil" just for a scenario, but you're in my face telling me I'm worthless. The difference, as I told you, is that I KNOW I'm NOT worthless. My worth is more than reading your book though. Seriously, how could you possibly think that would make me want to read it? Pretending that you are the Devil and that this book is going to save me from Suicide and save my soul... Dude, you don't even know my Soul!

9. "The Devil's Glove" is a terrible name. It sounds worse than cliched. And trust me, I've read some pretty cliched books. (Usually in the genre you are in)

10. "Are you big readers?" Nope. I walked into Barnes & Noble because I like the scenery. Never read a book in my life.

I could go on and on, really. This was the worst meeting with an author I've ever had. And I didn't want to meet you in the first place! Thanks for telling me all about your schedule though, because I now know to avoid B&N until Friday when you leave for St. Louis.

Sincerely,
Sarai.

Post Script: Don't laugh at me because I said "Joe Pesci does not endear me to your book." I was being quite serious. Going by his character name really doesn't make you more likable.

Coming Out.

Dear Friends and Family,
I'm going to say this as politely as I can.
I am an Atheist. I am Bisexual. I am a Liberal. And I am perfectly happy being who I am. So, please, don't post on my page about God, about hating the President, about how people who love each other shouldn't be allowed to get married just because they are gay or anything else like that.
I don't want to be "saved." I was, once. And you know what? I was miserable. I've never been more unhappy then when I was a "Christian."
Any comments or posts pertaining to the above will be deleted. And if you don't like how I live my life, then you are also free to delete me.
I'm not going to hide who I am or try to change I who I am because other people are "uncomfortable" with how I live MY life.
Its taken a LONG time to say this, but I am Proud of who I am. I think I've turned out pretty well considering the life I've had. And I'm not going to be ashamed of ME anymore.
love,
Sarai.

Letting it Go

I need to know. I need to know if you have feelings for me like I suspect you might or if you are only my friend. A best friend, a wonderful friend. I need to know because I'm obsessive. I'm a silly girl and stupid to boot. I can't let you go if I think you might want to be with me too.

I'm not sure what I was thinking. Resolution? Closure? Some kind of ending to these feelings?

Is it wrong to love you like I do?

Injustice

Customer: Its an invasion of my privacy to put my middle name on that ID! Its bullshit! I should have a choice! I should have a say! I'm going to get my documents legally changed to just show my middle initial!

Dear Customer,
I am sorry that your life is so perfect that the only thing you have to bitch about is whether or not you have a say on what we put on your ID.

Seriously, some of us are being told that a CORPORATION's religious rights are more important than our right to insured contraceptives.

Some of us are being told "sorry about your child's death, but guns don't kill people."

Some of us have our bodies more regulated than GUNS. OUR BODIES.

So please, keep bitching over your middle name. Really, it makes me feel so sorry for you.

Want to talk about invasion of privacy? The government wants to control what I do with my vagina, uterus and ovaries! It wants to tell me what I can and can't do with MY BODY.

Go get your name changed. Go for it. Waste hundreds of dollars on getting everything changed to your middle initial. And then come back in to get a new ID and pay all over again.

Can we talk about Voter ID laws for a minute? Can we talk about how people who are in love can't get married? Can we talk about gun laws? Could we talk about something that actually FUCKING MATTERS for just a hot second?

Get the fuck over yourself.

sincerely,
Sarai

Dear Kurt Vonnegut,

Dear Kurt Vonnegut,
It is difficult to remain soft in a world that has become hardened against you. It is difficult to remain loving when there is so much hate that you can feel it in your bones. 
The most difficult is to remain sweet when everything tastes so bitter.
I want to be soft and sweet and loving, but it is difficult to do so when you must be hard and jaded and hateful to survive. We never really survive this life do we?

Dear Dad,

Dear Dad,
I keep telling myself that I'm finally going to send the letters I keep writing. Because I write you all the time, Dad. I feel like I am forever writing you. Forever trapped in a loop of memories that I want to share with you. Forever stuck on repeat.

I keep telling myself that I'll send this one. I'm really going to put that stamp on it and I'm going to go to the post office and mail it. I'm going to finally start the conversation that I've been dying to start for years now. I say those things and then I never finish the letters and they never get sent. I chicken out every time. I did send one letter. I sent it to Auntie, because she wouldn't give me your address and it got lost in the mail.

Five pages worth of memories and the desire to have you back in my life, lost in the mail.

I can't recreate that letter. I can't recreate all the years you've missed out on. I'm not that good of a writer.

I suppose I should start off simply. Tell you that I love you. I miss you. I don't care that all the time and all the drugs have separated us. I just want to have you back in my life. I just want to start over.

I want to start a dialogue with you. Not a monologue of monotonous details spread out like a map of childhood to adulthood. But I have no idea where to start.

Do I start from the last time I saw you, in flesh, 19 years ago? Do I start from 13, when I sent the last letter I would send; the one that said I hated you and that it was your fault that Memere died and that I never wanted to hear from you again? Where do I start, Dad? Do I start with an apology?

I am 25. I'll be 26 this year, which seems, both, difficult and easy to believe. I feel like I've been 30 my whole life, so 26 shouldn't be so bad.

I don't remember what you sound like. I don't remember your smell. I don't remember the small details about you. Though, when I look at the pictures, I recognize myself in you. We have the same pointed chin, the same toothy grin, and, though I never see your feet, the same flat feet. I feel like I look more like you than Mom, most of the time. Though, admittedly, there are times that I look just like Mom when she was younger.

My hair is still curly. Though, it has lost some of the wildness over the years. I'm not sure if that is age or other factors. My eyes are still brown. Sometimes black, sometimes caramel colored. I am incredibly short. Okay, maybe not incredibly. I am about 5 foot, 3 inches tall. I think Mom and I are the same height.

I write all the time. Not just letters to you, but stories and poems and blogs. I finished writing my first novel in January. I'm in editing right now. But I keep second-guessing myself on it.

I vote Democrat. Obama is my second favorite President (the first being John Quincy Adams). I am a feminist (much to Mom's and Chris' chagrin). I like to consider myself a Humanist, really. I'm far too opinionated for my own good (again, to Mom's chagrin). I don't believe in the Death penalty, the Three Strikes law, Circumcision or Spanking your kids. I'm an atheist; though I was a Muslim for a short time. And a Christian, against my will, growing up. I like women, as well as men

I hate my job. I hate feeling like I've failed myself in staying where I am unhappy for so long. But I am poor. What else is there to do?

I love travelling. And I run away from home as often as possible. Though I always come back. I am in love with the Ocean.

I've never tried Pot. But I drink. I don't drink as often as I'd like, because I can't justify spending money on it. I've never had my ears pierced. I don't have any tattoos.

I wish on stars, even though my wishes never come true. I love thunderstorms and old movies. I have more books than I could possibly read because I find their presence comforting.

I got married in a red dress and barefoot because I look best in red and I hate shoes. I was married on the first of September, 2011, in a court room by the Judge. I've been married almost three years.

I am missing a portion of my pelvis (on the left side) and I have a rod in my leg (on the right side) because of a car accident that happened October 19th, 2009. I am not crippled. I can walk and run and jump. I just ache some days more than others. And the rain, though it makes me sleep better, seems to seep into what bones I have in my pelvis.

Some days I hate you. I hate that you have missed out on so much of my life. I hate that you took drugs. I hate that you never wrote me again. I hate that I feel like you abandoned me.

Some days I hate myself. I hate that I told you never to write me again. I hate that I never sent the letters I wanted to after that. I hate that I didn't run back to the mailbox and rip that letter to shreds. I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for all the cruel and vicious words a hurting 13 year-old wrote you in a moment of weakness. I'm sorry that I let all my hatred and feelings of betrayal and abandonment take over. I'm sorry that I never wrote you again. I'm sorry I've not sent any letters since then.

Take this for what you will, Dad. I don't want to spend the rest of my life wondering if we could've had a real relationship. I don't want to wake up one morning to find a note from Auntie saying that you have died in prison. I don't want to wonder if I could've fixed this.

I never stopped loving you.
Sarai.

Constant Emotional Confusion.

Dear ____,
I can't stop thinking about what is going to happen if we see each other in May. I can't stop having stupid, girlish, fantasies about it. And, oh, the guilt that follows!

But even you say I won't want to go home. Are you saying that because of my crush on you or because of S______ itself?

Every time I think I know what I'm doing I realize I have NO clue!

What do I want from you?

I want you to hold me. I want you to kiss me. I want you to slow dance with me.

I don't know if I want you to sleep with me. I mean, obviously I do, but I don't. Confusing right?

I really just want to date you! I have already had (already have) a relationship that was based on sex early on. I just want to do the stereotypical boyfriend/girlfriend stuff. Go to movies, for ice cream, hold hands, make-out, go sailing, etc.

Maybe have sex later. Maybe wait longer than I did the first time around.

Childish Fantasies

Dear ____,
You'll have to forgive me, my childish fantasies are getting the better of me.

I have all these little romantic vignettes in my head, that I just can't seem to shake, every time I think about getting to see you.

Childish things like:
You: I'm attracted to you.
Me: I'm attracted to you too.
You: I want to kiss you.
Me: I want to kiss you too.
Cue the romantic kiss; chaste, but passionate.

Or another scenario:
You: May I have this dance?
Me: You want to dance with me?
You: Of course, did you think I would dance with anyone else?
Cue the romantic dance followed by a romantic kiss.

I never fantasize about sex with you. I'm not entirely sure how sex works in other relationships. I've only been with one man and I don't think the girls I've been with count towards sex with another man...

So I just picture kissing you. I've kissed other men before, so I feel confident in my abilities there.

You make me so nervous and twisted up inside, just imagining. And you always skitter around the question.
Are you attracted to me?
Would you kiss me?
Do you have feelings for me too?
Have you ever had feelings for me?
Or am I crazy?

Welcome to Womanhood

Dear Gentleman in the Body- Wash/ Feminine Hygiene products aisle,
You got flustered while I was looking at the pads and trying to decide which ones I'd prefer to get. You made your anxiety quite plain when you practically whined at your daughter about "Can we get out of this aisle now?" I'm sorry that the proof of my womanhood makes you so uncomfortable. It makes me super uncomfortable because I can tell you it is no picnic.

Its nauseating to pass blood clots. The cramps, back ache and migraines are exhausting. The mood swings, the pain, the blood, its all fucking miserable. You know what does NOT help?

Your attitude towards it.

Yes, its gross. It would be awesome if I could just get a little note from Mother Nature saying "Congrats! We're not pregnant, see you next month!" But that isn't how it works. Unfortunately the proof of my not having conceived is currently ruining my underwear.

You know what would be helpful? A small smile of sympathy. Or, just acting nonchalant. Your agitation did nothing to soothe me. Quite the opposite in fact. I laughed it off to my mom and one of my friends, but your attitude of agitation and mild disgust makes ME feel disgusting. As if I didn't feel disgusting enough as is. Think about what you are portraying for your daughter, who was picking out body-wash. You are showing her that she should be ashamed of what she has absolutely NO control over.

You're implying that you wouldn't stoop to buy such things for her by making it seem like a shameful thing to buy. Why do we shame people for things that are not in their control? Sex drive, sex life, sexual health, etc.

I can't change how the human body works. I can't change how MY body works. But YOU can change your attitude towards it.

Sincerely,
The girl on her period trying to decide which product would work best.  

Dear Self,

Dear Self at 285lbs (129kg),
Its January 14th of '14 and we started exercising in earnest on Sunday.
Its not going to be easy, please don't give up on us when it doesn't immediately drop off.

DON'T BE DISCOURAGED!

love,
Me.

Dear 16-year-old Self,

Dear 16-year-old Self,
Dare you to move. That's the song that describes the summer in which we were 16. Of course, most of that summer can be summarized in that song and "Meant to Live."

That summer you met Adam. And you thought he was the greatest thing since sliced bread (fun fact: you still think this and you're 25 now). He was/is funny, smart, sexy and it was inevitable that you would fall for him. I mean, who wouldn't? He was also a little aloof and a little strange, but that didn't make you step back, it made you step forward. And so, when you think of "Dare you to move" by Switchfoot, you will forever picture yourself, in your camouflage t-shirt, sitting on the beach at TRC with him.

That was the summer you admitted to an adult about the cutting. That adult was Adam. He hugged you so tightly you believed that your broken pieces might fall back into place and for a little while they seemed to. You were happier. You adored him (again, you still do). You wanted to be with him, because he was older and he was smart and he knew French and you were so desperate to escape your reality that you wanted to create a new one with him.

Most of all you felt like he dared you to move, dared you to do something for yourself and be the person you were meant to be. So when he wrote "bonne courage" on your hand, you felt it was a sign. I still think it is.

Being of good courage is hard, 16, but you're going to have to be courageous to make it through to 25.

You'll lose touch with Adam for a while, but don't worry. When you finally reconnect, its perfect and far better than anything you had at 16. Even if you are married to someone else, you will still find the nerve to tell him how you really feel about him, still. Because you do still have feelings for him. I think we always will.

love,
Me.

Little Sister

I remember the day you were born as if it were yesterday. I remember holding you for the first time and thinking you were such a pretty baby. I remember feeding you, changing you, watching you grow up.

In March you will be 18 and I feel like it was yesterday that I was chasing you around the house, your giggles echoing down the hallway. I still feel bad for scraping your little heel when I tried to let you ride my bike with me. I still remember the panic I felt when you wouldn't eat, slowly wasting away until you were skin and bones. I remember thinking that I wanted you to get better, but also wanting you to no longer be in pain.

I think of these things, memories made over a lifetime and I wish you were little again so that I could do a few things over. I wish I had played Barbies with you more. I wish I had read to you more. I wish we were cuddled up on the couch watching "Help!" again.

I'm so proud of you though, my beautiful child. Even though I am nostalgic, even though I miss baby cuddles and listening to you playing in your cupboard.

I'm so jealous, darling. I feel like you are so much prettier, so much smarter, so much more interesting than I ever was or ever will be. You tell me I'm pretty, but I can't help thinking you are the most gorgeous person to ever set foot on this planet. And I'm not just saying that because you are my baby sister. I'm not just saying it because I've always thought you were prettier than me.

I'm saying it because I never want you to feel like you aren't pretty. I'm saying it because I want to build your self-esteem up. I want you to always believe you are beautiful; without being a snob, without being a bitch. I want you to believe what I never have; that you have worth and are beautiful.