What better way to start an open letter project than with a cranky letter to the person who irritates me most, most of the time.
An open letter, to myself.
Well hey there stranger. Yes, I’m talking to you, don’t do that thing you do were you sheepishly check behind yourself hoping this agitated tone is aimed at someone else. I bet you’re starting to panic a little right? Well you should, I have a bone to pick with you. You’re being an idiot. If we’re going to be perfectly honest with one another, I’d like to think that over the years I’ve gotten to know you well enough to be firm in this conclusion.
Don’t mistake me, I’m not quite self-loathsome just yet, but don’t push your luck. Even now, as I type, the list of other things you should be doing is building up like Hogwarts letters through the Dursley’s mail slot. Well why haven’t you jumped to it? See that kid in her jammies with the party whistle? That’d be a good place to start. She’s threatening to wake your entire house and shatter the only semblance of ‘pre-woken up child peace’ you might have today, in which to organise yourself. Why are you letting that happen? Too late. They’re awake, and already the list of things you need to do today has pushed into tomorrow morning’s pre ‘panic- they’re awake list’. My life is currently in shambles, and it’s all your fault. Don’t act like this is a shock to you. If there’s anything other than self organisation you are worse at it, it’s pretending that you’re organised. But before I get personal, let me remind you of your crimes.
Firstly, you shouldn’t be writing you should be studying. There are another six weeks left in this university term; two major assessment tasks, two minor essays and a novel and a half of readings for the week building up. You fell asleep last night with an e-reading on the history of human related climate damage on your face. You’re lucky it wasn’t the actual book, that shit would suffocate you. Get off the internet and read that novel you’re supposed to have written two thousand words on, you only have five days. I know what you’re thinking… “Five days?! Pfft. Get off my case, letter writing self! I have another two days before I need to act” WRONG. You have five days in which the likelihood of one of your children coming down with chicken pox, refusing to sleep for five whole days, breaking their arm, hunger striking or committing a crime is greatly heightened, just because you have a deadline. This word ‘deadline’ brings me to the next major reason as to why you are currently my least favourite person.
You have SIX weeks left of uni term, and you’re getting married in EIGHT weeks… Please, next time you think it’ll be fun to challenge yourself, remember following a potty training two year old around reading a book on flower arrangements while she poops on the white carpet. Remember the morning you did the school run, rushed to the library and realised your skirt had been undone and your underwear on display all morning. Because all the other mothers needed just one more reason to judge you, beside your lateness and unwillingness to sign up to canteen/reading/sport/all round irritating soccer mum duties. If you’re lucky, come Sunday I might make a tape documenting your current state and hide it somewhere in the house, so you can witness first-hand the ‘stained shirt, greasy hair, dumped middle age man look you’re rocking, just in case you ever think it could be a good idea to push yourself ever again. Ever. It’s not grunge-y, it’s greasy. Need I even say anymore? Ha.. Oh wait, you have just signed up for part time work. I feel I have appropriately demonstrated why my above accusation is correct.
I had so many plans for you of late that as usual have not come to pass. Early morning runs, vigorous exercise regimes, healthy eating plans and all sorts of household/ life organising activities. Screw you and your procrastination. And all of those super organised baking/exercise/mothering wizards Pinterest dangles in front of my face daily. Why aren’t you more like those ladies that can sew entire kiddie outfits from scratch while baking dinner, decorating and doing sit ups all at once? Up with this, I will not put.
But in all honesty, my third and biggest problem with you right now is not your lack of academic/wedding/ house hold organisation, but quite simply this; you’re mean to me. Quit it. I’ve watched you tolerate all sorts of irritating and unprecedented behaviours and criticisms from others that would have led those with a normal level of patience to commit mass bully Boondock Saints style revenge, yet you still instruct the offender to “have a nice day”. Why are you nicer to check out chicks than you are to me? Even the bitchy ones?! Could you please take it a little easier on me and perhaps tell someone else what you think for a change? Stop over complicating my life and jump to my defence. I really didn’t want to partake in all those family fun run-esque events you’ve signed me up for in the past, I’m useless at selling raffle tickets and I don’t like baby minding/house sitting/dog walking or your aunty’s lingerie parties. And fyi my arms did not look like tuck shop lady arms in that dress on the weekend, I’ve personally seen the photos and you were wrong at the time. I did not appreciate the massive rant with hand gestures you gave in the car the other day when we were running late, frankly it was bizarre and I’m not the only one who thinks so. You need to have a cup of tea and calm your farm. Do not get mad at the children for trashing their
first, second, third out fits for the day, because you don’t have time to change them. Remember you told me this would be ‘fun’.
Frankly my relationship with you of late is mentally and physically exhausting and you spend all my money like some sort of abusive partner (on text books, cute wedding related things, sugar and guilt presents for the children- just because you can’t play with them right now doesn’t mean they need all of the Cupie/power ranger dolls). Yet you still have the nerve to call me fat.
Get yo act together woman, and treat me right, or I may just sleep past your deadlines, poison you with sugar and continue to be a general menace to all of your plans. Now quit your procrastination and get back to work or I’ll sign you up for canteen duty.
Sincerely, your irate self.