To Mumbai, India
You have our sympathies. It must be difficult to restrain your initial reaction to the death and destruction in your city. Especially since the horror has been connected to Pakistan, your enemy of long standing. I hope that tensions in the region will not increase. When you realize that your own people were not targeted, that these extremists sought Jews and Westeners, perhaps it will help. I doubt it. This kind of ugliness is a wound that heals but leaves a scar. I hope the families left behind find comfort.
To My Mojo
Dayna says you’re drinking margaritas in Tahiti. If you are, get your ass back here. I don’t want to stare at my work in progress with a blank expression anymore.
To The Dirt Faced Okie Kids
When Daddy leaves at 3am, you do NOT get to wake up and start rattling off random shit. First of all, there’s not enough coffee in the world to make that okay. Second of all, YOU HAVE TO GO TO SCHOOL!. Go to sleep, damn it!!
I miss you so much. How the HELL am I supposed to do Christmas Cookie Weekend alone? Damnit.
To My MIL
I know it wasn’t easy. Your oldest child married a smut writer and your youngest child married a conspiracy theorist. Put those two together, add wine and you’ll get discussion on Gun Control, black helicopters and L. Ron Hubbard. Good thing you love us.
To my Daddy
I missed you this Thanksgiving. A lot.
To The Bayshore Mall
If I’m going to drag my sorry ass up at the butt crack of dawn to shop at the mall, I would appreciate a little bit more offering than a fucking contest that involves texting randomly every hour and being told “You’re not a winner”. (I only did it once. Some of us can barely pay our Cell Phone bill as it is)
Next year? I recommend a LOT more incentive because I don’t like mornings. AT ALL.
To The Redneck
Sure, I’m thrilled you’ve found a place where other poets are reading your work. Yeah, I’m ecstatic that you’re getting a positive response. Of course I love to hear your latest fucking revision of your poem. But you DO remember I do this writing thing, right? You are aware that I didn’t get to write for a week as Thanksgiving ripped through our home like a tornado. Does writing poetry have something to do with not emptying the garbage? I can see that the clash of the creative egos is going to be ugly. I write smut. I’ll win, asshole.