Ms. Kenzie

Kenzie, hi!

I came across your profile and thought I would write you an email. I admire your honesty in your profile, it was refreshing. It’s inspired me to tell you that I as well did suffer from anxiety. I’ve had two full-blown anxiety attacks in my life and they were quite the thrill! The last one I had was about 6 years ago and of course it happened while I was driving, because panic attacks really like to lay it on thick with the dramatics. However, it has really has given me a different outlook on things.

I have become a much more relaxed person and am able to focus more on things that I enjoy rather than problems I can’t fix. Basically, I don’t sweat the small stuff anymore. Unless we’re being literal and talking about actual small things; like bees. Ohhhhhh, I don’t know about you McKenzie, but I do not like bees, no no no.

Did I ever tell you about the time I was last stung by a bee, McKenzie? It happened just this past summer. I was playing a round of golf with my Dad and after I hit a shot I noticed there was this yellow-jacket clinging to my hand and when I tried to shake it off, I felt that nostalgic, familiar sting of a bee; a pain I have not felt in nary 20 years.

Reminding myself that I was 32 years old, I mustered up all of my courage and acted like a man as I shook my hand casually and was like, “I think I was stung by a bee. I hardly felt it, of course, because of my coarse skin and I have felt so much other pain in my life up to this point that a bee sting is trivial nonsense, but I saw the bee and I felt a wispy tickle, so I put 2 and 2 together…we got any whiskey?”

On the next hole, I was looking at my hand and I said to my dad, “Well, at least he didn’t leave the stinger in my hand.” And he informed me that yellow jackets don’t do that; they can sting repeatedly. And I said, “I thought only wasps did that.”
“A yellow jacket is a type of wasp,” he said.

And then I started to cry.

So now, to never forget that day of 3 months ago (7-26-15-never forget), I keep a spiteful jar of honey in my cupboard. Whenever I open the cupboard door, I take a look at the jar and I glance at my hand and go, “Eff you, bees. Eff you.” And then I was told by a friend that yellow jackets don’t actually make honey; they only manufacture and export pain.

And then, of course, I started to cry.

Thanks for taking the time to read this, McKenzie. I’m glad I came across your profile and was able to write to you. I hope to hear from you and if not, best of luck out there!

Bee-lieve it!

Warmest regards,

—-Mike.

Ms. Tara

Dear Tara,
I hope this letter finds you well. I was intrigued by your profile and thought I would write you. I have been called ‘funny’ and never ‘funny looking,’ although I have once been called, ‘unforgivably ugly.’ To be fair, the person who said that was referring to my personality and not my physical appearance, which—thank god, am I right, Tara? The phrase ‘irrevocably damaged’ also rings a familiar bell, but since I cannot recall the exact context, I’m not going to mention it.

I think your career path as a model is a brave one. I’m a bit too introverted myself (see: writer) to put myself out there the way you do. But if I were to model, I’m sure the highest I’d be able to reach career-wise would be as a sock model for a Kmart circular. And I’m talking tube socks with the bold yellow stripe on top, not ankle socks (let’s not kid ourselves here, Tara). And maybe I’m casually holding a football while donning these stunning tube socks that are on sale until Monday and I’m chuckling a little bit as if someone off-camera made a joke and broke the tension of the shoot.

Anyway, that’s about as far as I’d think I’d ever make it as a model.

I do not consider myself an INFP (Introverted iNtuitive Feeling Perceiving) anymore. However, I do practice selfless acts whenever possible and listen to people more than I speak to them, but I suppose time and my own life experiences has made me incredibly suspicious of anyone that is willing to do the same for me. So what would that make me? I guess that would make me an HPRT (HyPocRiTe).

As for the other attributes that you are looking for in a partner, I do believe I possess them and I look for the same little nuances and quirks that two people can share to make a very loving, lasting relationship. But those things are only proven in actions, not words, so I will end my letter here and say that I would like to get to know you better. Have a wonderful weekend, Tara!

Sincerely,

Mike

Ms. Bird

Dear Ms. Bird,

I enjoyed reading your profile. I too, am a Bill Murray fan. For me, it doesn’t get any better in Scrooged when the props guy asks how to put little antlers on a mouse and Bill goes, “Have you tried staples?”

I admire your decision to work in the medical field. I have a couple of friends who are nurses and they say the work is as rewarding as it is challenging. It’s a lot of grace and stability under pressure and to be honest, when I am faced with such a task, I find that my go-to move is to pull on the fire alarm and run out the door. Sometimes I have to go running out of the building screaming, you know, really sell it, because there’s only so many times you can pull that off and make it believable. Hint: You can do it up to 3 times before people get a touch skeptical when they see you nearing the wall during questioning.

In the early mornings I write humor articles (hence the time stamp of this email) and during the day I work in the Chalfont area where my supervisor is an admitted former crack addict. True story, he smoked crack back in the day and now he falls asleep on the forklift.

Granted, it might be the apnea and not the remnants of inhaled cocaine from 1989 that causes the sleep spells, but whenever he approaches me and says for instance, “Here’s how I would have done this…” And if I don’t agree with him I simply say, “Yeah, but you’ve smoked crack, yes? Sorry, I just wanted to ask that again; I keep forgetting.”

Of course, if I find that I am completely in the wrong and have put my foot in my mouth (which, believe it or not, has happened), most buildings (if they are up to fire code) have what I call a, “Get out of Argument Free” lever on the nearest wall.

I hope you have a wonderful day, Ms. Bird! And I’ll leave you with my favorite poem by one Bob Wiley: “Roses are red, violets are blue, I’m a schizophrenic, and so am I.”

Cordially,

Mike

Ms. Fallon

Dear Ms. Fallon,
Good morning! I hope this letter finds you well. I came across your profile and thought that I would write you a letter. I too am looking to someone to laugh with. I wasn’t too sure about this match.com business, but I was feeling a bit of pressure from a coworker of mine who gave me an insightful observation about myself.

I’ll never forget what he said to me. It was an unseasonably cool Wednesday morning when he said to me, he said, “Mike, your life is terrible.”

And I said, “Matt, you don’t even have a home. How can you be telling me that my life is terrible?”

“You need a girlfriend,” he advised me. “You’re in a rut. And before you ask, yes, I have a girlfriend.”

“Matt, you sleep in the park! How can you possibly have a girlfriend?”

He then went on to describe some vagrant “hot spots”—places for the transients to comingle and get together. Most of these places were tucked below underpasses and were not fancy enough to have a place to set down your stick and bindle. I finally had to cut him off and say, “Match. I’ll join match. Please just stop talking. Please.”

It was a very eye-opening conversation for me, to say the least, Ms. Fallon. What made you decide to join match? Do you have a homeless friend that coerced you into joining? I have other friends who live in solid housing structures and they said match was the best bet; it cuts out a lot of the riff-raff, I hear.

Ms. Fallon, have yourself a wonderful day! I hope to hear back from you, unless of course, your name is Ms. Taken…

Signed,

Mr. Mike

Ms. Cubs

Hi, Cubs

My name is Mike. I came across your profile and I found it very endearing. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have six siblings; I just had one older brother so a drive to the beach left me nowhere to hide. He’d look around for someone to hit and he’d look over and go, “Oh, hey, there’s Mike.” Then he’d punch me. I really could have used a couple more siblings to help dilute the punching, is what I’m saying.

And for a bit of transparency, since you actually had the bravery to admit that you’re human and do clumsy things, I will tell you one of the dumbest things I’ve ever done. My friend once left his cell phone over at my place and I thought, “Oh, I should let him know.” So I called him. And then his cell phone rang, but it said the call was coming from me, so I picked up the phone and placed it to my other ear, saying, “Hello? Hello??”

This went on for approximately seven seconds, which is eight seconds too long. What’s more, this happened in the privacy of my own home and nobody saw it but me, but it was so “Looney Tunes Elmer Fudd” dumb that I told everyone I came across for the next few weeks, even my boss.

Thank you for admitting your human side and I hope to hear from you! Take care

—Mike

The Unappreciated, Aspiring Author Files an Auto Insurance Claim

Describe the time of day and weather at the time of the accident:

The afternoon sunlight burst through my windshield with a Machiavellian magnificence, creating streaks of golden radiance that danced through my careening automobile.

Were you wearing a seatbelt at the time of the accident:

I remember tugging at the seatbelt with great fervor, convincing myself that it was strangling me in an attempt to keep me safe, when actually, ‘twas I endangering the sanctity of the seatbelt with my thoughtless behavior.

In your own words, describe the cause of the accident:

Samantha said I loved the bottle; a bit too much at times. Often, when I would come home late and stinking drunk, she claimed I loved the bottle more than I loved her. Perhaps she was right. But a man in my line of work needs all of the numbing agents he can get his hands on. I remember saying to her one time, “Sam. Babe. Why you going all extreme on me? If you’ve seen some of the things I’ve seen, Toots, well, let me tell ya, you’d think twice about giving me a load of shit.” Ah, Samantha, has it been that long since we last talked? Since we last touched?

Did you sustain any injuries because of the accident:

I remember looking at my shaking hands holding loosely onto the steering wheel. I focused on them as best I could and saw long, deep wrinkles, each one representing a trial or adverse scene in my life, each one more painful than the last. How many of these tests in life have I passed? More importantly, how many have I failed? The air bag had failed to deploy, causing a deep bruise on my forehead. It would heal in time. My pride, however, would not. Hell, I could have used another scar. Just tack on another failure. Oh, Samantha, where are you, babe?

If possible, name the other people involved in the accident:

Samantha and I used to picnic off of highway 341, taking the Gladstone exit and barreling up the hill on Brookview Road. From a distance, we would see our secluded spot; a grand oak tree that stood in front of the entrance to a grove. As a child, my friends and I would venture out there on our Schwinn’s and play Kick the Can until either dusk or when we fell over each other from youthful giddiness and innocence. Samantha and I carved our initials into that same tree years later, where the indentation of my ’93 Saturn’s fender now lays.

Comments welcome! Please leave this form in the break room or make copies and pass them out at random coffee houses or any place where you may find publishers. Thanks!

Insurance Agent’s assessment/comments (office use only):

Claim denied.