An Open Letter To Open Letter Writers

I think it’s my turn now, right?  I’m 45.

Listen. I struggled. Nobody knows how I struggled.

I spent my early twenties in a riot of part-time jobs, “underground” theatre, and literature classes and the whole period reeks of skunky Rolling Rocks, unwashed flannel, and ennui.

What was minimum wage back then? Fuck if I know. I was drunk.

When I got my MFA (in Creative Writing; my BA’s in Theatre – I win for racking up the most non-lucrative degrees), and had to deal with Sallie Mae for the first time, I looked at the debt I’d accrued, did some mental calculating, and figured I’d be done paying my loans in about 20 years. It was horrifying. It was depressing. So I probably got scuttered and went home with a bass player. That’s what you did BACK IN MY DAY.

I’m not going to scold Talia, or Stefanie, or Sara Lynn (but I will give props to her outstanding eyebrow game). I’m 45. I carry tweezers in every goddamn bag I own. And those tweezers aren’t for MY eyebrow game, I’ll tell you that much. The other day I had a hot flash so bad I had to roll down the window and stick my head out of it like a Golden Retriever. Everyone’s got shit.

Now get off my lawn.

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