Coffee Is My Lover

Ack.  So this is late.  Again.  And I am exhausted, so it will probably be short and not very sweet.  But here it is - the letter to the love of my life:

Dear Coffee,

You're the first thing I want to see in the morning.  I just can't get enough of you.  You are my inspiration, my elixir of life, my love.  You energize me.  You comfort me.  You're black and strong and @#$%ing fantastic.

I just want to pour you in a cup and take you everywhere.  I want you.  All the time.  Yes.

Longer letter later, my love.  I need to go track you down if I want to continue to be awake.

Love,
The Yank

(Embarrassing photo to come)

Here Comes The Rain Again

"What's that?" I hear you say, "This is supposed to be an open letter to something you love!" That's correct, and rain is indeed something I love. Which is fortunate, being British and all.

Dearest Rain,

I fear language will fail me. How can words describe the depth of my feeling for you? How can I properly express my extreme fondness for you?

We've been lucky enough to share so many good times together. Do you remember how I missed you when I lived in Italy? How my heart yearned to see you again? And, when you eventually arrived, with a gloriously heavy downpour and deafening rumbles of thunder, how I frolicked happily, giggling like a schoolgirl, through the gridlocked traffic in Piazza Repubblica?

Now I'm back in the UK, we see each other far more often than we once did. I feel I've grown close to you again, regardless of that year we spent apart. Even now, as temperatures begin to rise and that pesky Sun begins to peek through the clouds, I know in my heart that the Great British Summer will not tear us apart. Au contraire, you'll make a number of unexpected, out of the blue appearances that will fill me with joy and keep me happy until winter rolls around and we can get better acquainted again.

You understand me, you do. How could you not, after such a long friendship? I'm amazed that whenever I feel down, your grey, threatening clouds reflect my mood and - on the rare occasion that happiness seizes me - how your playful little raindrops bounce merrily off the pavement, sparkling and glittering in reflected light. I know you're not at the top of everybody's guest list, but I don't care about that. You're at the top of mine. I've never been one to worship the popular kid - everybody raves about how great the Sun is, and I don't get it. I'll always root for you - the underdog, the unappreciated.

And that just about sums you up doesn't it, Rain? You're unappreciated. All the good that you do - you make plants grow, rivers flow, my hair look cool. Sure, you've ruined the odd pair of jeans - and there was that time I wore converses with holes in and had to dry out my socks on the hand drier at work. But what's one small blip, one tiny, insignificant misunderstanding in a lifetime of happiness?

It's nothing, that's what it is. While you, my friend, are everything.

As always, I wish you the best and wait with anticipation for our next meeting.

Yours truly,

Tom

An Open Letter to Chocolate

"It's Not You, It's Me"

We’re doing Open Letters again! Last time we all wrote letters to things we were pissed off at, this time we've decided to write letters to things we love. But before I post my letter I just want to say to Tom and Lauren that I’m sorry for taking the most obvious letter topic. If you were already planning to write about chocolate, don't let this deter you.

Here we go!

Dear Chocolate,


I’ve never been one for drugs, I can live without coffee, and I’m not much of a gambler, but I do know that out of all of the possible addictions in the world, you are the one I could never give up.


You and I have been together a long time. Many Easter Sundays where I lovingly chomped off the ears of a smiling bunny. Christmases with hot chocolate and mint meltaways shaped like bells. Halloweens where I devoured the tiny fun sized chocolate bars before I would even touch the suckers and hard candies.


But Valentine’s Day - Valentine’s Day is the day I need you the most. Today is the day I am reminded that only my mom buys you for me. While I can laugh at all these couples in “love” eating overpriced food in crowded restaurants, giving and receiving half-dead roses and carnations, I still feel the urge to drink a bottle of pinot gris and wallow in self-pity. But this year I’m prepared. This year I was fortunate enough to have entered your shrine:


The Hersey’s Store.


Yep, I bought myself a chocolate bar the size of my face and I intend to eat the whole damn thing today. So after serving heart-shaped cookies to obnoxious customers, I plan to have a hearty meal of Hersey’s milk chocolate. Mmm. So creamy and delicious.


So thank you Chocolate! You are my Valentine, forever and always. You’ve been a faithful and trusting companion and friend. I’ll never stop loving you.


Sincerely,


Your Not-So-Secret Admirer,


Allison “The Chocoholic”


P.S. I may cheat on you later with Cinnamon Hearts.

Eating chocolate isn't pretty, but delicious.

Tom - all you need is love. See you Wednesday!

Happy VDay to all! (Or happy chocolate eating!)

Cinnamon heart.

An Open Letter To My Neighbor

Dear Neighbor,

It's two in the morning.  Why on earth are you listening to such awful music at such a horrendously loud volume?  It sounds like Native American chanting mixed with bad folk music or something.  At first, I thought you were just having sex with the guy down the hall again.  That's annoying too, but I was prepared to ignore it.  I was prepared to just tune it out and eat my traditional piece of two a.m. existential cheesecake while surfing through the "missed connections" on Craigslist.  But then I noticed that it had a melody.  Or at least, it's trying to have a melody.  Really, that music is wretched.  I don't understand why you would play it at all, let alone at a high volume in the darkest hours of the night/morning. 

Maybe it's just karma getting me back for all the noise I've made in this room over the past couple of weeks.  Perhaps the universe is finally condemning me for all those late night jam sessions, one-person dance parties, and keytar shredding sessions.  But I don't really see why any of that would deserve karmic punishment.  I mean, I generally keep my noise at a semi-reasonable volume.  And my noise usually sounds like actual music, not like an owl being shoved into a miniature trash compactor.

Seriously, why does that music need to be on right now?  What are you doing in that room?  Are you having a seance or something?  Are you conjuring up the spirits of all the old people that died in your room?  I know it's cool that we live in a building that was formerly a retirement home, but please, stop whatever you're doing. 

You're not having sex with the guy down the hall again, are you?  I thought I heard his voice but maybe it was just my imagination.  I hope that's not the music you listen to when you have sex.  Actually, I don't care.  I just want you to turn that damn music down.  Or off.  Yes, turning it off would be nice. 

I bet you're really high right now.  That would make sense.  I know you smoke pot out of your window a lot.  You told me once.  You probably forgot.  I would know even if you didn't tell me.  There's a freaking mushroom cloud of marijuana smoke emanating from your doorway half of the time.  It's worse than the creepy stoner stairwell (at least they've figured out how to cover it up with Fabreeze a little).

I like you, Neighbor.  I think you're a nice person.  You have interesting taste in fashion and fun stories about Burning Man.  Once you even invited me to go to a sketchy bar in the middle of the night.  I went because I had nothing better to do and I will admit that I had a good time.  But this music?  It needs to go.

I swear, it's only gotten louder since I began writing you this letter.  It's been on for an entire hour now.  Give it a rest already. 

Maybe it's not even coming from your room, Neighbor.  Maybe it's coming from somewhere else.  Maybe I should go out in the hallway and investigate.  I really don't want to do that.  I am all snuggled into my nest of blankets.  I am wearing my pajamas - the ones with the grizzly bears on the pants.  I do not wish to catch anyone in the midst of a seance/tribal celebration/mating ritual.  I guess I'll just siphon some decent music into my ears via headphones and fall asleep. 

I know I signed up for this sort of thing when I agreed to live in a commune, Neighbor, but please, JUST KILL THAT DAMN NEW AGEY MOANING MUSICAL SHIT! 

Peace and Love,

Lauren (The Yank)

An Open Letter to the London Underground

Dear Tube Train,

I'm worried that this is going to come across overly harsh. Honestly, I don't mean it to. I do appreciate all of the hard work you do. I completely understand that you are getting on a bit (what are you now, like 100?) and that you didn't sign up for the volume of work that's been thrust upon you. And my God would I miss you if you weren't around.

But we need to talk.

Don't panic; I'm not breaking up with you. I know, I know - I may have flirted with the odd bus journey, and once in a blue moon strayed from your loving embrace in favour of a black cab. But you're my first love; it's you that I turn to first, forsaking all others, when I need to get around town. It's just - you and me - I'm not sure it's working. I'm not sure either of us is happy.

Let's talk about your punctuality. Do you have any idea how irritating it is to be left standing, waiting, watching the minutes tick by as I wait for you to arrive? How soul-destroying it is to know that an entire city is rushing around above me, enjoying life, while I stand still and wait for you? And when you do finally grace me with your presence, you do so without a word of apology, just a list of the same old tired excuses.

Like 'Signal Failure'; if your signals are as prone to failure as your frequent tardiness would suggest, may I advise that you buy some new ones? Or how about, 'A Defective Train Up Ahead'. That's a classic, that is, one of your favourites. Then there's 'Flooded Stations', 'Crowd Control', 'Passenger Alarms'. I've heard it all, and you know what? If you don't want to see me, if you don't want to pick me up, well don't bloody bother. Just don't shower me with these transparent and quite frankly insulting excuses.

Did I say insulting? Well yes, yes I did. The excuses with which you attempt to pacify me are insulting in how obvious it is that they are false. Don't think I didn't notice that, after being stuck in a tunnel for 10 minutes due to overcrowding on the platform at Farringdon, we arrived at said station to find nobody there! Not a soul! And while I'm at it, you should know that I've noticed that your signals tend to fail whenever it rains. Coincidence? Ha! I think not! Look, none of us likes getting wet. None of us likes tripping through puddles and slipping across station concourses, but we do it because we have to. And what's more; we're not made of metal. You should be laughing in the face of the Great British Winter, not hiding from it!

I don't know, Tube. Where did it all go wrong? You're not the same as you once were. I can hear your unhappiness. I can hear it in the creaking and groaning of your carriages, the exhausted wheezing as doors drag themselves apart. I can see it in the dark and dusty tunnels and the weak and flickering lights. I just wish it hadn't got this far.

I won't abandon you. Not yet. I just needed to get this off my chest and let you know how I feel. And now that's done, I'll leave you alone as you probably need to think. Please don't doubt my affection for you; I hold you in such high regard, in such warm regard (as warm as the Northern Line on a summer's day, in fact). I'll see you in the morning.

Yours in anticipation of a happier future,

Tom

In honour of Halloween, here I am dressed as a frog. A drunk one.

An Open Letter to My Résumé

This week The TASG is writing open letters to things that annoy us (or at least I am). For my post I am tackling a particular subject that frustrates many 20-somethings - searching and applying for jobs!

Dear Résumé,

I’m Allison, remember me? The girl with all the education who works at a coffee shop? You’re supposed to be helping me! Now, while you look pretty (thanks to me), you aren’t functioning the way you should. I’m so frustrated with you I could tear you to pieces and just start fresh.

Okay, so I lack experience, but I make up for it in transferable skills, no? Why aren’t you pushing my skills? My ability to work well with deadlines? I’ve proofread you time and time again, re-ordered you, changed your font...nothing. It leads to nothing.

When will you succeed for me? I can’t get more experience until someone finally believes in you. Do you believe in me, Resume? I’m beginning to think you’re sabotaging me on purpose. Giving me spelling errors in transit, after I’ve pressed send.

I work hard each day serving people with “real” jobs coffee, and they look at me like I’m just another apron providing them with caffeine. I work a job that I could have gotten with a resume filled with spelling and punctuation errors, but I chose you because I want to aim high - I want to do better.

So Resume, you and I have to chat. We have to work something out soon, because I’m not getting any younger and time is a’wastin’!

Don’t even get me started on your friend Cover Letter.


Sincerely,

The Coffee Girl Canuck

Happy Halloween! File this under embarrassing photo #4!