Autumn Lovers Anonymous.

Dear Autumn Cliches,

Now that is enough. It's hard enough trying to get people to take me seriously without trying to throw brown Ugg Boots and grey leggings into the mix. During the months of October and November, it's really all I can do to trudge through the massive, glittery parade of red and orange. You think you can just traipse into my life every year and take over my closet with gloves and pea coats? You think you can make me just sit in a Starbucks with a leather bound journal hoping someone will inquire about my latest poem about leaves? Well? Do you? I'm not stupid, Autumn Cliches. I don't have to take this. I don't--

...That's it, I can't do this. I just can't. 

Hello everyone. My name is Melinda, and I just really, really love fall cliches, alright? I love them. I love them to the depths of my pumpkin spiced soul. And I'm aware of how senseless that is.

Really, Autumn cliches. Have you ever really smelled a pumpkin? And actual, living pumpkin? Do you know what the fragrance is? It smells like squash. Squash! Pumpkins are nothing but orange watermelons, and we know it. A pumpkin is a vegetable and vegetables smell like nothing. But we sniff it alllll up. Pumpkin spice, pumpkin cheesecake, pumpkin candelabra, pumpkin latte, pumpkin everything. It's ridiculous in every sense of the word. But if you stop, for a moment, and ponder it. I mean, really think about it--have you ever tasted anything as delicious as pumpkin pancakes on a rainy Saturday morning? Have you ever experienced anything like the aroma of a house on a blustery afternoon after someone has made pumpkin bread? Look me in the eye and tell me you've never smiled after enjoying a pumpkin delicacy.

That's what I thought.

Don't get me started on yoga pants. They are garment of thin, sweat shirty material that barely made it into the day time clothing category. They almost don't even maintain the pocketed right the be called pants. But if you think for a moment that I don't relish in all the delightful yoga pants glory, you would be wrong sir. At any time a person, male or female, could show up at my house unannounced, wearing yoga pants, and would face no judgement because I would answer the door also wearing yoga pants. We could spend the day in yoga pants splendor eating snicker doodles and watching pride and prejudice, giggling into our cinnamon apple cider and putting stupid hats on the dog. You can't do that stuff in July! You can't I tell you!

We live in a harsh society today that frowns upon the love of common things and I tell you, enough is enough. As a woman of the 21st century I insist that I maintain the right to wear my cutest scarf even If it's September and also 80 degrees outside. So what if I built a bonfire for the sole purpose of being able to tell my fellow autumn lovers on facebook? So what if I brag about my new generic burlap, ribbon, mason jar craft on Instagram? Maybe I LIKE being overzealous about my new cornbread recipe?! 

I have a dream that one day my future children will be able to walk down the street crunching leaves and eating their maple flavored desserts without fear of judgement. I long for a generation that embraces cran-boysenberry decorating ideas with enthusiasm. I hold on to the hope that, in another lifetime, I can pin all the sage-y, cinnamony, November-crisp prose all over Pinterest and know that no one will ever insult me over it by asking if I'm Canadian. That's the world I aspire to, Autumn Cliches. That is the future I want to see.

So, no longer. Autumn Cliches. I'm not going to be ashamed. I'm not going to hide the things I really love. And if those things include me, sitting with a laptop in a coffee shop, stoically looking out a window and trying to convince passers by that I'm drinking chai tea and investing in an inspirational blog I never have any intention of writing in, then so be it.

Ardently and Artfully Yours,

Melinda

Calling All Guitar Guys.

Dear Every John Mayer Song That's Ever Been Recorded,
Can we just talk about my general distaste for everything about your personality?
Ok, I know you are involved with a celebrity, and you probably get a lot of hate mail in addition to fan mail. But your outbursts are becoming just ridiculous. It would be one thing if you just sort of existed on your own little indie pop label and people with nothing better to do kind of enjoyed you every now and then. But it doesn't work like that, does it? Ohhhh no. you had to be FAMOUS. And not only famous, but HIPSTER. And people have the gall to listen intently and label you as ART.
I. am. disgusted.
John Mayer songs, you have taken the name of music in vain and that's insulting. This is coming from a girl who calls smooth jazz an abomination and gets unnaturally defensive of Scott Joplin.
Ok, so you can strum out a few non-cliche guitar chords and mix them together. Good for you. Too bad its not the chords that dictate the score. Oh yes, they provide the meat and potatoes. But there's this incredible lack of skeleton to your sound. Ever heard of drums? No, constantly using a djembe doesn't count. There's this thing called percussion and apparently you have no idea what it is. Know how I know that? Because you have the exact same beat as well as the same tempo for every song released. Why, John Mayer Songs? Why?

 Let's not get started on lyrics. Actually, yes. I changed my mind. Let's discuss you're lyrics. You claim to present this deep angsty poetry that touches the deepest part of a person's soul. It's supposed to be soft and easy and lovely. Let's take a look, shall we?

Exhibit A:
"Say what you need to say,
Say what you need to say,
Say what you need to say,
Say what you need to say."

Exhibit B:
"Your body is a wonderland.
Your body is a wonderland, oh yeah.
Your body is a wonderland."

Exhibit C:
So we keep waiting (waiting)
Waiting on the world to change.
We keep on waiting (waiting)
Waiting on the world to change.
It's hard to beat the system
When we're standing at a distance
So we keep on waiting (waiting)
Waiting on the world to change.

Notice anything? I'll help you out. There's one semi poetic phrase in there, thrown in with a verse or two, and then repeated a MILLION TIMES. That's not poetry, lad, that's laziness. Don't misunderstand me, repetitive, rhythmic patterns are a vital part of both music and lyrics. But there is such as thing as too much of a good idea. You know who else used repetitive phrases in his art? Dr. Seuss. And he still managed to do it in an educational manner, rather than an extended form of superbly executed douche-baggery.
You know what you are, John Mayer songs? You're that guy that brings his acoustic guitar to every party he ever attends to make sure the girls are well aware of his deep, sensitive aura. You stand in the corner with the dim lighting, strumming apathetically, and sexily brushing the blonde-dyed brown-dyed black hair out of your eyes while making sure your jeans are tight enough to show off that non existent butt as well as short enough to display one of your chuck taylors that is untied just so. The girls fawn all over your poor, tortured artist soul and I'm willing to bet you get lucky quite a bit.
What, am I wrong?
Didn't think so.

Meanwhile, I'll be over here with my eyebrows raised at you in an expression that says, "Really? We're going to be this immature? Really?"
...
Ok fine, that last part might have been a snub complete with the upturned nose but I'm a little ok with it. When you start putting a little more passion into your work and your listeners, I'll be sure to give your outcome a more sincere listen.
Till then,
--Melinda

A Hypocrite's Decree

Dear Anti Romantic Clever Words and Catch Phrases (let's call you ARCWCP for short),

You've already seen the title so I'm going to skip the disclaimers for now. You've committed some crap and I'm calling you on it.

We all know the one's I'm talking about. Words like "sacred bromance", "friend zone", the dreaded "platonic" horrors. Silly bitter quips such as:

"Bros before hos"

"I'm spending the night with my boyfriends, Ben and Jerry"

"Ovaries before brovaries"

"Haters gon' hate."

and my personal favorite,

"Richard, why don't boys like us?"

Believe me, ARCWCP, you definitely have a place in this world. After all, many of you were born from the intelligent minds kindred to the writers of Parks and Recreation and How I Met Your Mother. Strategies trade, Tweets tweet, laughs travel, ice cream is handed out. You've been warmly welcomed into the American English syntax as well as several entries of urban dictionary and the notebook covers of junior high girls everywhere. I can appreciate that.

What I can't appreciate is the attempted weaponry of such pathetic means.

So many of us are fed up with failed daydreams and romantic disasters that we've looked for any and every excuse to lash out. (Remember that title?) You offer services all too willingly in an attempt to advertise every possible use, and we gladly and foolishly accept. But can I examine something here for a moment? Honestly? Has anyone ever effectively expressed themselves or changed anybody's mind via a cryptic facebook status?

You get us, ARCWCP, and that's great. But come on. I've watched countless boys complain about being left in the "friend zone" with no justification. Ask them. Ask them how many girls they've asked out on a date. That's when you'll get the hesitated "umm....well..." blushy answers. What's actually happened, ARCWCP? They've been left in the friend zone by one, count them, ONE girl and they spend the rest of their precious years blaming their loneliness on all womankind. Guess what? I can't read minds. Ask my friends, I'll bet they'll tell remember they can't read minds either. There's this silly presumption that my thought's don't necessarily revolve around boys 24/7. Do you, a boy, want to date me? Ask me to dinner. Sitting there whining about girls not being attracted and why your incredibly subtle signals didn't whisk her off her feet is only going to transition into a self-fulfilling prophecy of epic proportions. I get that rejection is painful, and I remember standing alone in that realm many times. But do you know what that attitude says to us? Really and truly? We aren't worth the risk, and because of that it's somehow our fault you're unhappy.

But it doesn't condense down into only one gender, ARCWCP. Oh no, that'd be far too easy. Neither sides of the fence have green grass, and this is why. Girls keep a list. Readers have ears and eyes that are perking up at this moment. Yes, a list, and this is what it looks like--subconscious or otherwise. Well meaning youth ministers, motivational speakers, gender studies and movie messages alike have encouraged girls to keep a list of everything they want in a man. Have standards! If you don't, you'll end up with a loser! So ladies have obediently kept a mental or physical list of what they're looking for. In itself that's only natural, but its the game that ruins the board. Ladies, how would you like it if every first impression of you was made by a preconceived list? Why should every characteristic about you be judged instantly by a chart of objective qualities that refuses to take into account any sort of personal judgement? I have news for you. People in general are not one dimensional. You know who counts as people? Men. And just like you, men have had an entire background of experiences, values, and choices. When a girl passes off someone because they don't meet certain criteria and don't look or act similar to Channing Tatum, a girl misses an opportunity to know a person, whole and in 3D. Once we take off the rose colored glasses and forget all the movies we've seen, then our expectations can change. Not diminish--change. My advice? Take the list. Burn it.

See, ARCWCP? Entire attitudes are flying around our media culture and its really just ridiculous. Suddenly people my age are acting like 5 year olds with grubby little hands reaching for candy hearts and fairy tales. We forget that relationships take time, work, cultivation. Risk, disaster, apologies. It's a part of the world we live in, but you've wiped our memories.

She put you back in the friend zone? Dress your wounds, dust yourself off, and free yourself for someone who won't.

He won't pursue you? Dry your tears, wait for someone who will, and until then--have goals that don't have to revolve around someone else.

Maybe, just maybe, if we stop living in a state of being pissed off at each other, healthy relationships can actually blossom somewhere.

Till then, stop screwing with our heads ARCWCP, and stay on Community where you belong.

Sincerely,

Melinda

Compulsions of a Cereal Killer

Dear Oops All Berries Captain Crunch Brand Cereal,

I have to say that you are, in summation, one of the most underwhelming treats I have consumed. I remember back in the day when the crunch berries were the best part of the entire Captain Crunch experience. Much like the treasure hunt of a marshmallow laden bowl of lucky charms, the fun was in wading through the yellow squares to find your berry goodness. After diligent search and milky treks, the spoon reunited with the berry and monstrous joy was to be had.

Not so any more, All Berries. I'm on to you and your foul-mouthed deceit. First of all, how am I supposed to enjoy the thrill of the hunt when none of you are hiding? All of the berries are RIGHT THERE. Not to mention the colors all clash like a synesthete's nightmare (that one's for you, Casye). Red, green, blue, and purple? Come on. That just makes my eyeballs sear back in color wheel induced agony. Not to mention that you don't even taste like the good crunch berries any more. You just taste like normal Captain Crunch, and everyone knows that that's the part of the cereal nobody really wants to eat.

Sorry to say this, All Berries, but I'm going to have to abandon you to the drain and switch to breakfast time's Ole' Reliable: Honey Nut Cheerios. If I were to give you a grade in deliciousness, I would mark your test paper in a bright scarlet F.

Regards,

Melinda

Enemies of the Anatomy.

Dear Ovaries,

Thanks to you, I have officially joined the "retarded ovaries club" at school. No, really. We have one. It's unofficial and maybe a little bit fictional, but I think "retarded ovary syndrome" runs in the tap water at HLG. Just one more way the institution is severely trying to screw me over.

So, in essence, my college probably made you retarded. But I digress.

I really can't deal with retarded ovaries right now, ok? I just can't. I'm under enormous pressure and increasing fear that I'm not going to make it, that I've forgotten something, that I didn't babysit the registrar enough, and they are sitting there waiting with a lit match dangerously close to my diploma. My back muscles are rigid enough, I really just can't handle you making them feel like they are going to rip in half every 6-8 months. That's right. If you keep going all psycho retarded ovaries on me, I might just snap. And then my friends will have to be coaxing me down from the roof of Nun Cook, prying the cold, dead, cabbage patch doll from my hands (that just happens to be on fire) and making sure that I don't eat my hair. And it will be all your fault.

Ok. That's not fair. You can't really help being retarded, what with the probable cysts that are initiating an all out invasion--and being quite rude about it, to boot. You were just doing your job when these uneducated cysts (who probably only got the job because they slept with the office manager) started moving in on your cubicle space. Probably. We're still not sure yet.

And I know you're trying. I know. I'm sorry. But I was always really scared that I would become the old boring cat lady with a mustache. Seriously. The extra eyebrows and slightly darker random upper lip is severely freaking me out, and my readers are probably cringing due to all the excess information. can we try to do something about this? Please?

Thanks.

--Melinda

What is better than this?

Dear Zebra Print Duct Tape:

Holy crap. You are so freaking amazing. Ellen agrees. If I could have a crush on an inanimate object, it would be you. Believe me. I stood in walmart staring for a good 45 seconds.

That is all.

--Melinda

Just as good as a rape whistle.

Dear Semi-Denty black pick up truck:

I know there's probably not a lot you can do about your occupants, and for that, I'm sorry. But could you pass along a short message for me? Basically:

1. If they want to pick up chicks, the Walmart parking lot isn't the place to do it.

2. If they really want my phone number, they should do it in a way that doesn't involve cutting me off on purpose, waving their arms, and thinking its cute.

3. The fact that I'm on my way to a gas station and its 20 degrees outside doesn't really help their case either.

Come to think of it, Semi-Denty Black Pick Up Truck, haven't I seen you before? In fact...weren't you the truck that one guy was in who tried to ask for my number at an intersection in the gritty part of Independence? Yes, I'm certain that was you. I never forget a bumper/grill combo. And come to think of it, I think you were the truck that guy was driving through the Steak N Shake Drive thru. You know, the 27-year-old who called my work an hour later and asked me for a date...when I was sixteen?

That's it truck, I'm on to you. Not only are you a cradle robbing pedophile, but you are also a creepy stalker. I know I'm quite the catch, but subtly following me through my various walks of life is really not the way to get my attention. Maybe had you come earlier and approached me like a gentleman then we could have had a decent relationship, but this is just ridiculous. You can't really blame me for being slightly creeped out by your queer random appearances that always manage to happen in the most ambiguous places that seem like they came be right out of a vintage Hitchcock movie. Or maybe from the Sequel of the Ring. Either way, I don't like the way this is playing out. If you don't leave me alone, I'm going to have to request the use of my Dad's box truck. Or my roommate's tractor. Or my friend Jonathan's family truck. You know, the one that took out a freaking bear in Montana. I don't know what your intentions are, black pick up truck, but due to your strange behavior I'm not afraid to pull out the big guns. I don't have to take this, and if you don't lay off I will be more than happy to use my proverbial vehicle rape whistle.

We'll consider this you're warning, black pick up truck. Grow up, acquire some social skills and stop treating girls like the characters in your star trek fan fiction that you keep in your mother's basement.

Kthxbye.

--Melinda