Open Letter to a Married Female Friend

Dear Stacey,

I hate you. Oh, by the way, I also hate your husband, Todd. I hate you both. Do you know why I hate you both, Stacey? Because you’re so f***ing perfect. Even your damn names are perfect! Todd & Stacey. Stacey & Todd. Wtf?! You and your perfect husband with your perfect jobs and your perfect lives and your perfect car in your perfect garage in your perfect house with it’s perfect “matching colors” kitchen with your perfect “His & Hers” coffee mugs to fill with freshly ground organic coffee from your perfect coffee machine and then sit on your perfect deck in your perfect garden and say “Hi” to your perfect neighbors in your perfect neighborhood. How is this even real?!

Stacey, people like you are supposed to only exist in fictional stories. In fact, it’s like you just stepped right out of a Fairytale and came to life. How do things like this happen, Stacey? What cosmic occurrence lead to the string of events that lead to people like you and Todd existing? Why did every single thing in your life go so wonderfully, perfectly right, Stacey?

Why?!

Do you know what “worry” is, Stacey? No, you don’t. Do you know what “bills” are? Of course you don’t! Your perfect, rich, successful husband deals with all the bills so you never have to worry your pretty little head about it. You’re only stressed because you have so many champagne luncheons to go to and parties to throw and invites to send and how will you ever have the time to fit in your horse-riding and Pilates classes?  That’s like your idea of Defcon 5, isn’t it, Stacey? You can’t even fathom real problems!

I can only dream of your life, Stacey. Well, actually, no, that’s not quite true because I’m your friend so I have to watch you live your wonderfully, smooth and glossy, picture-perfect life while I sit on the other side of the fence with my broken life and broken teeth and broken heart, hoping I’ll be able to find some broken man and afford a broken shack in Crimesville sometime before I die of malnourishment or murder.

I hate you, Stacey. Because you have choices. You’ve always had choices, from the moment you were born. Who do I want to be friends with? What toys do I want for Christmas? What clothes shall I wear? Do I want a brown pony or a white pony? Where do I want to study? Which car do I want daddy to buy me for my 17th birthday? Who do I want to date? Where do I want to live? Who do I want to marry? You got to CHOOSE all these things, Stacey! You didn’t have to work for anything, you didn’t have to fight for anything, you didn’t have to settle for second best – or third, or fourth – you didn’t have to accept acceptable or deal with endless disappointment and rejection.

Ever.

You don’t even know what disappointment and rejection are. You’d have to look them up in the dictionary. You don’t know what it’s like to go without something, to long for something you can never, ever have. Every single thing just worked out so hot damn wonderfully for you, didn’t it, Stacey? Why?! What makes you so deserving of a wonderful life? And worst of all, because you were born into it, you don’t even comprehend how fantastic it is! You sit there and complain that your cinnamon spiced chai latte isn’t “chai” enough. Wtf, Stacey?!

F*** you, Stacey!

P.S. See you next weekend.

Love,

Your friend, Aliquo.

 

 

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