An open letter to you, you and my job.

Dear work;

You remind me of an abusive boyfriend. You beat me and beat me and wring me out to dry; then we have a few good nights, you tell me you love me, and I'm in your arms again.

You ask me to wear that $350 silk dress that was given to me in Las Vegas; everyone tells me I look beautiful.

I want to tell them "I know", because I do, or I wouldn't be with you. I look in your mirrors and watch my brightbrightbright hair flow around my alabaster shoulders and go 'Hm, maybe the diet I was going to go on was stupid.'

You plague me with stress and nightmares, work. You fill me with the fear of going back into The Real World. You make me doubt my ability to be a Real Girl instead of a Fantasy Girl, and when I protest I can be you fill my garter with $20s and say

Come on you were made for this.

I wasn't. I was made to be a doctor, work.

We're breaking up in six weeks.

Respectfully,

Catherine V.

Dear You,

Yes you; With your dimples and taste for ethnic food. You fascinate me. Aloo ghobi and bahuna paneer never tasted so good.

But you make me wonder. You're simultaneously so mature and soulful, yet wild at heart. Maye you're like me, trying so hard to suppress your inner Wild Child and just Grow Up Already. It's so hard isn't it?

I love how your smile is a million watts bright and how you threw your arms around me from behind when I said I wished I had a jacket.

I also love how you had me home and in my pajamas by 11:30pm because you have a day job and go to college. I like how you're going at a molasses pace like regular people do.

You make me feel normal. I think I like it.

Love,

C.

Dear You-

You could be hazardous to my health.

Everytime I see you, I want to push that black hair out of your face and bite your bottom lip. I want to drag you by that shirt that matches your crisp blue eyes and throw you down on the couch and have my way with you.

You alway sneak up on me; slipping your arms around me while I sign my stage name in wet black ink on the claim sheet, turning me around and saying

You still look hot, baby

when I protest I am in my pajamas.

You say I make you blush, when in fact, YOU started it. You were the one would would pull me into hugs every time you saw me, and stand in front of your friends who came into our work with your arms around me, rubbing the small of my back.

I played Like Bodies Like Sheep and offhandedly said

I'd love to have sex to this song

and you shot me an offering look.

I don't want to keep it professional.

Love,

C