Five More Open Letters for the Suckers in the Audience

Dear God.

Word. I just wanted to write you--I'm sorry, You--to thank you--shit, You-- for answering a lot of prayers and making Myla (the dog, not the writer)'s cancer scare probably just an aggressive infection. Nice one.

High Fives for Christ,
Ca.....Fuck It, You Know Who This Is.

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To the Cockroach I Found Crawling Up My Pant Leg Today, Inside My Apartment.

Hi, motherfucker. Listen up. When I moved into that apartment, I asked the manager of the building for two things: the first one was for things to be quiet. With concrete walls, it was pretty hard for them to fuck that up. The second one was no bugs. I said, spiders? Inevitable. That's expected and I won't complain. Ants? Ants are upping the......well.......ante. Ha. But roaches? If I find a cockroach in my apartment, I will move out and tell every single person I see at the law school that your apartment building is a shithole.

I perhaps didn't use these exact terms. It went something like that.

Anyway, the point is, the only reason I didn't run directly though the double glass of my balcony doors, over the steel railing, and down three stories into the brick street below after finding you on my pant leg is because I didn't quite realize what you were at the time. After I realized, though, and smashed you underneath a magazine by stomping on the top of the magazine about sixty-seven times and then dragging the magazine over top of your disgusting little body until i was sure your brains were oozing out your ears, the only thing that then kept me from lighting myself and all of my possessions on fire after sawing off my leg was the rage building inside of me, you sick, sick fuck.

What does this have to do with you? Well, when I can control my rage enough to still be professional about it, I usually get results. Therefore, this letter is really to inform you that any of your relatives currently living in my apartment are going to die tomorrow morning. And it will not be an easy death, oh no. I'm going to Agent Orange their asses, and I'm not even going to do it myself. No no, I'm calling in the calvary, you twisted little bastard, and they know no fear. I have no remorse. You brought this on yourselves.

I am become Death,
Catherine "Shatterer of Worlds" Loya.

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Dear Wills, Trusts and Estates I.

Wait, what?

Sincerely,
Catherine M. Loya.

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Dear Woman Who Pulled Directly in Front of Me This Morning and Into the Space I Was Clearly About to Pull Into, Thus Blocking an Entire Lane of Traffic.

Hello. I would sort of like to apologize to you, because I didn't quite mean it when I looked at your vehicle and said "What the fuck is wrong with you?" I'm sorry, because I'm sure you sort of weren't paying attention or something, or maybe were having a bad day already, or....you're........blind? Or new. To this country, I mean.

Anyway, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that, especially not if you can read lips, which you might be able to? The reason I think this is because you looked out your window at me and waved frantically while pulling out of the space immediately, definitely not looking to see if anyone was coming on Market street, one of the busiest streets in Akron--a literal thoroughfare--and thus blocking the lane of traffic and almost causing some accidents. Did you do this because of my angry face? What were you trying to signal to me with the crazy-wave? Was that the international sign for "Turn back, Angry Traveler?" I don't know. I'm sorry about your possible ailments, and the fact that you're crazy.

Also, I feel bad about the angry words. Still. I'm sorry. Let's workshop this, okay?

I was thinking something like a group circle,
Catherine "Or Maybe Reading Sark Books Aloud?" Loya.

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Dear Katie Holmes.

I can still say "Holmes," right? I mean, the Cruise thing isn't real yet, right? I mean the name. For now.

I'm sure you're very happy about your wizard-magic baby, or whatever, and I would like to congratulate you on the little life you have brought into the world with the help of the shitcrazy guy you're married to. Speaking of shitcrazy, will John Travolta be the Godfather? I hope not. Not in the movie sense, either. That guy freaks me out. And Kelly Preston? Don't even get me started.

So Katie (is it Kate now? I can't keep up with the level of crazy in your life right now), listen. I know my last letter to you was really from the heart, and everything, and this one is too! Really! But this time I just wanted to ask you WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO YOU AND oh see, look what happened there. I'm sorry. I told myself I wouldn't do this. It's hard not to be so yelly though, because YOU HAVE BECOME THE HOST FOR AN ALIEN SHITCRAZY FETUS PERSON, AND WHEN I THINK ABOUT IT I GET REALLY SCREAMY. SEE? AH! SCREAMY!

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. See? Shhhh. I'm sorry. Mommy's not mad.

Major Tom to Birth Control,
Catherine "There's something wrong, your circuit's dead" Loya.