Dear SJ,

Letters published your blog to a nefarious group of people or the person standing in line in front of you at the bank are played. Just quit it. Don’t do it. No one wants to read some long-winded bullshit piece of bullcrap about what you should have said, if only you were fast enough. The next time you find someone else’s diaphragm in your vest pocket after a trip to the drycleaners, have it out right then and there. Don’t save it up for your ineffectual digital screed.

And why not let it out? Anger applied carefully can be a real aphrodisiac. One minute you could be chucking a slightly cracked birth control device at someone’s head, the next minute you’re hitting it on a box of chemicals. Admit it, you like your drycleaner’s mustache. You like it, even though you know it’s being non-rocked in a completely non-ironic fashion. And look over there, under the garment carousel…you’re all set if you’ve stopped routinely carrying condoms with you.

Don’t worry about the chemicals on the ‘phragm. Remember that they have a sterilizing effect. Perhaps they will neutralize the acids created when you were angry. No one likes an angry, acidy, baby barn. Sometimes I get so angry I think my tweeter could fry up hushpuppies. See, that’s what you should have said to the drycleaner.

Dearest SJ, you have to look at these incidents as life-bonuses. If things went your way all the time, you would become smug and self-satisfied, which would unravel like a house of cards the minute you got a crack in your windshield or rugburn while you were combing the carpet looking for errant crack crumbs.

In conclusion, just let it out. No one likes a martyr.

Sincerely,
SJ