Dear Sir,
I am almost certain that you don’t know who I am. Frankly, I don’t really know much about you. You might work for Doctors Without Borders, aiding the injured in war-torn areas. For all I know, you are on the fast-track to sainthood. I’ve been aware of your presence for a little less than two hours, and I can say unequivocally that you are an asshole.
I love going to concerts. A few years ago, I’d see a concert every week or so. Then I lost my job, and my disposable income evaporated. This summer, I noticed that Smashing Pumpkins were playing a show here at the Wonder Ballroom. I was too young to see Smashing Pumpkins in the 90s, so this was my chance. Of course, I had no money, so I sold some of my clothes and ate nothing but rice and beans for two week to save up the $30 for a ticket.
At the show, I got a spot close to the stage to stand and see the band. Then, right after the show started, I met you. Or rather, you brushed up against me and managed to stand right in front of me. All six foot six of you. No matter how I contorted myself, the stage was a blur of bright light and the back of your head. By the time you muscled in front of me, the place was so packed that I had nowhere else to stand.
So instead of enjoying the one luxury that I sacrificed to experience, I’ve been writing this note which I will clandestinely place in your pocket in hopes you realize how much of an asshole you are. If there’s any justice, hell has a special corner for tall pricks like you.
Sincerely,
Marissa Hoffman
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