Open Letter to All the Women Who Ignore Me

I’ve seen you in the library, the coffee shop, the museum, the Miss Flexible Nude World contest, and I know you’ve seen me. You must’ve seen me. How could you miss this DKNY shirt and these soft, supple Versace pants? Just tonight, before I saw you again in the car with all your gorgeous friends laughing, playing, touching, I wondered why you wouldn’t just look over at me and blow me a kiss or something. I’m here pouring my heart out to you. I picked you out of that stream of buxom blonde and brunette vixens who constantly parade themselves past my gaze day after day. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?

I’m sure you’ve forgotten about that time in high school when I poured chocolate milk on my Hilfiger shirt and pretended it was dried blood that was spilled from my face during a fight to defend your honor and your incredible fashion sense to those dumb airheads you hung out with. You’ve probably forgotten about that entire year you got the TV Guide delivered to your door. Never saw a bill did you? You think those publishers just forgot to make you pay? You think there’s some TV Guide fairy out there somewhere doling out gifts like that? And what about all that “free” cable?

I know I probably haven’t shown enough of my emotions. I try to put on a strong face for you, but you should see my refrigerator. It’s covered with priceless examples of your earliest fingerpaint, paper mache, and macaroni-glitter art. And it’s all so beautiful, I cry every time I get something from the fridge, egg, cheese, horned melon, or whatever.

I don’t know. I guess you think you’re too good for me – like I haven’t had enough of that in my life – at work, in my car, in the Boy Scouts. All I really need is to be acknowledged. Just look at me over your latte now and then. Just slap my ass as you saunter by me on the elevator. Stare into my longing eyes in the bathroom stall at work. Wave to the camera in your room now and then…something. Just let me know I’m all you’re thinking about while you’re dancing on those tables, which don’t seem very stable by the way. We’re perfect for each other. You know it’s true.