Tag Archives: letters


dear the bird and the bee pandora station, how do you know me so well? you played “kiss me”, “there she goes” , and you know that i secretly, and unironically like matchbox twenty and sugar ray? i think if it was possible to marry an internet radio station, i would’ve married you real hard by now. because who wouldn’t want to put a ring on a station that plays “follow you down”?

dear future man friend, just a quick note. if we’re already on the subject of marrying things real hard, i’ll be a puddle of estrogen and happiness and thoughts of flowers if you somehow find covers of hall and oates or the bee gees that i’ve never heard. i feel like i’ve found all of them. just a hint, if you find a cover of “how deep is your love?” played on a string quartet (and yes, i’ve heard the bird and the bee cover of it), you will get a baker’s dozen of brownie points (seewhatididthere?)

dear coconut water, why are you so popular? you taste like nasty sauce. water that has had off-brand cereal soaked in it. i don’t get why girls in yoga pants love you so much.

dear non-fiction creative writing class, i’m sorry i’ve been “that girl” this whole semester long. you know the type. right arm always in a flexed position due to hand-raising to give her opinion all the freaking time. doubling all the paper minimums on the pieces you have to read and critique for me. just being grossly nerdy in general. actually, no. i’m not sorry. i’ve never been the “writing 6.5 pages for a 7 page paper min.” kind of lady anyways. so, yeah. you guys can deal. i’m just going to sit off in the corner and clean my glasses.

dear bras, ahem, sports bras. after this feminist paper on the play lysistrata (which is sooooo good, by the way) i have to write this week, i wouldn’t be surprised if i started burning you all, stopped shaving my legs (oh wait, i already do this), and started tossing around phrases like “gender construct” casually in conversation. help?

dear world’s end, i kind of want to live near you forever. i’d spend my days lounging on your various stretches of grass. i’d pack a lot of picnics. i’d have at least ten bernese mountain dogs. and i’d probably start a magical dog municipality of sorts, and become queen of it. okay, i’ve thought about this a lot. i just really like you, okay?

dear shins, i am so so so sorry for the mistreatment you went through last weekend. contra dancing on thursday? salsa dancing on friday? renaissance dancing on saturday? i totally understand the majorly attractive limp i have developed. forgive me?

dear love life, you crack me up. really and truly. from lesbians nearly-proposing to me at train stations. and straight girls telling me they’d date me if i was a dude. to straight boys flinching at my key chain collection. and the fact that i have to carry a separate purse for just my keys. to people not believing my stories about my dating life. stay weird, love life. it’s like my dating life is a game of mad libs done by a group of drunks, their favorite words being “poop” and “rashes”. thanks for never getting boring.

that’s all, future manfriend;

Pinned Image

hey there, future manfriend.

i think it’s important to tell you now, that my life is absurd. before you buy into all of my nonsense like you are haphazardly ordering a hand-blender on amazon, thinking you will make blended soups alllllll the time (or something), i should let you know this.

i am a weirdness attractor. it just seeks me out. it finds me wherever i am.

when it’s at the bookstore: i always ask mindlessly wandering folks whether they need help finding things and it ends up with a crotchety grandpa talking about his dojo master who knows how to kill someone without even touching them. and he only drinks hot water with soy milk with honey, as per his dojo master’s recommendation. and going up in the elevator with a customer interaction commonly goes as follows:

lady: you know what i don’t like about this place?

me: oh, what is that?

lady: you can’t take books to the toilet. ugh, it’s so frustrating.

me: …..

i wear clifford heads. and “story time” is something i put on a to-do list at work. bear voices, giraffes that can’t dance, and snack time are common concerns of my day to day life.

whenever i pet a dog on the streets, their loyalty instantly switches to me (i’ve had multiple witnesses to this ridiculous phenomenon).

when it’s at school, it’s not unusual for me to be called “raggedy ann” by passersby. tourists at work assume i go to harvard and ask to take pictures with me (?!?!this has happened at least 3 times?!?!)

one time, i was trying to get a bike off of craigslist and went to meet up with the fellow who was selling it. we met up in a pretty public space, but knowing me i was fully ready to assume that this day might be the day that i get thrown into a sketchy, nondescript white van and taken off to become some drug lord’s wife (i’m a huge bushel of fun, aren’t i?) keeping this in mind, the guy (who was adorable and had a british accent and i secretly wanted him to ride tandem bikes with me into a sunset. i mean, huh?) tells me we have to go to his workplace, as that is where his bike is.

visions of being thrown into a potato sack and thrown into a van rushed through my head as i willingly followed him to my fate. he hands me an i.d. as we walk through the “peter pan: the musical” tents that were taking over downtown boston. i confusedly ask him what he does. “oh, i am john darling”, he says casually as i writhe and try not to foam at the mouth with overwhelming joy. just a normal morning for me, future man friend. almost buying a bike off of john darling is somehow my normal.

being hugged by homeless women as my date approached me one night (true story, he was parking his bike, and a homeless woman began hugging me out of the blue as he walked up to me. it was awesome) is commonplace.

like a moth to a light, the weirdness just launches itself on to me. and i’m not interested in shaking it off. and i hope you aren’t either. to me, weirdness is the cheese sauce of life. and i’m fully prepared (with lactaid pills) to enjoy it with you.


future ladyfriend.


dear andrew bird, i wish it was physically possible to make out with someone’s diction. because i’d make out with yours. i don’t know what it is, but no one has ever made the words “nomenclature”and  “imitosis” so gosh darn dreamy.

dear nearly every girl i went to elementary school with, stop getting pregnant. one, i’d love to be able to sign on to facebook and be saved from seeing your unborn fetus. you know, the simple things. and two, it kind of freaks me out.

dear wanderlust, you need to chill out. like, really. you make me nervous to take a train to any stop near where it would be feasible to get to the airport on payday. i wish i was joking.

dear finals, i am going to dominate you. just wanted to let you know.

dear future man friend, just a quick note: i like a man who wears quirky socks. checkered, argyle, polka dotted, it doesn’t matter; it immediately sends me to swoon-city, population: 1.

dear “how to make an apple pie and see the world”, can i live inside of you?

dear man that sat next to me at the china town dumpling house, why yes, i would love to have one of your scallion cake-things. so kind of you to ask.

dear readers, i cannot believe there are 94 of you (that i know of/can count!) i never would have guessed i would have so many strangers read my rambles. from writing literary raps to just bonding with squirrels, i thank you for sticking around.

hello again, future man friend;


the other day i was pondering to myself about a subject i find most disturbing.

yes. ideal attributes in a man friend.

yes. i know it sounds innocent enough. it’s not like i was talking about world domination, and the like.

but i shuddered to think i would sound like one of those women. you know the types. who so casually list their ideal attributes wanted in a mate, like the world’s longest grocery list.

and they basically end up listing these perfect frankensteinian prototypes. without a flaw or quirk in sight. or jesus.

and i thought to myself. but man, wouldn’t it be great to find a boy who conveniently has aaron sorkin’s brain, andrew bird’s diction, and jake gyllenhaal’s beefy forearms?

but i had to catch myself before i even let myself dwell on daydreams about jake gyllenhaal’s dreamy disney prince physique.

because i’m more interested in being surprised. because i don’t exactly need constant witty banter capable of being captured on “the west wing”. and i don’t exactly need a boy whose words could earn a million points in scrabble (although “oxen” is a great triple word score).  and i especially don’t need a disney prince. hard abdominal muscles aren’t the ideal pillow for my head, anyways.

so i’m shredding that grocery list before it’s even started. and excited about the surprise.


lady friend of your (hopefully not too carefully detailed) dreams.

dear future husband;


oh, hi there future gentleman caller.

i just have to say one thing.

i swear, i’ll be brief.

i know i’m quite wordy.

the apocalypse might be nigh when a day comes that i’m quiet.

(i’m just proving my point now, aren’t i? oh, sigh.)

but anyways.

on those sunday afternoons. when i lock myself up in our room, under the safe refuge of the feathery duvets and quilts on the bed. under my handmade fort of blankets and tempur-pedic pillows.

i will be finishing a book. and i will arise from that fort not a happy camper. i will most likely cry.

i’m a typical pisces, what can i say. i cried within the first 45 minutes of “marley and me” (i don’t want to talk about it), and basically anytime i watch “air bud” (i don’t want to talk about that either).

but i don’t care if it’s some random bit of young adult fiction or love in the time of cholera.

i’m going to cry. and gripe all day. and just want to eat pancakes all day in my nick and nora pajamas.

bear with me.  i swear, it’s only when i finish books, those books whose characters let me escape with them for the week.

and also movies about golden retrievers.

oh god, why marley, why?!


your future lady friend,

mrs. mopey-pants (only on sundays) mcgee, esquire. the third.

the glare of your own shine;


Somedays I wish I could write myself letters, pages and pages of hastily scribbled letters.

Some of them would be filled with encouragement, a go-get-’em attitude, and plenty of inspiring quotes from Eat, Pray, Love, and the likes of Maya Angelou, and Oscar Wilde. Telling me to keep on going, you’re so much closer, just a few more inches and a few more big decisions. And bam, you’ll be there.

Some of them, I admit, would be of anger and of frustration and not very nice to the innocent onlooker. They would be so angrily written that thankfully the ink would bleed together to make Rorschach-esque blobs upon the paper, rather than fully formed letters to make up hurtful words. I don’t think I would like to view these words again after I had painstakingly inscribed them on to the paper. Once is enough.

I hate to admit it, but these letters have been written. Not by hand upon scraps of paper, and bits of post-it notes as a horrible reminder to myself. No, they are repeated to me, by me. Almost everyday if the angel residing on my left shoulder gets metaphorically suplexed by the devil sitting on the right. And it’s high time I received a lovely letter from myself. One of happiness, and hope, and that good ol’ fashion Mackenzie go-get-’em attitude.

dear mackenzie,

why are you such a crazy, little girl? you agree to things you don’t want to do. you stay friends with people who don’t make you feel good, who just tell you to be a diluted version of yourself. you work at a job that you don’t enjoy in a city you feel is holding you back from doing all of the lovely things you’d like to bring into this world.

but don’t lose the faith, girl. for every friend you have that is telling you to turn down your shine, you have five better friends who appreciate the glare from your shine. for every crappy job you have worked, it has made you a person with an added sense of humility. and it makes you more motivated to go full force on those dreams of yours. and soon, yes you heard me, soon, you will be in a city you adore. sure, you might be surfing some couches, but that’s okay.

but please, oh  please, mackenzie. please slow down. not every piece of your puzzle is supposed to be fitted together within two months span. you aren’t supposed to know where you will be going without some planning. look before you leap, because if you don’t look who is supposed to catch you? and please ask for help when going through these wild plans of yours. please oh please. you will be in that cute metropolis apartment of yours, with the knick-knacks covering the windowsill, and the cat that will constantly knock them down. soon enough, it might not be now, but soon enough. you will be on a stage soon enough, just don’t agree to audition for parts unless you absolutely adore them. and don’t agree with anyone who tells you that not that many people make it into “the biz”. many have. and who says it can’t be you?

but in the meanwhile, enjoy your present. yes, i said it. it sounds like blasphemy doesn’t it? but please, enjoy it. go out and ride your bike while listening to edith piaf. watch barbara streisand movies with your mother. write songs. make up jokes. read books. drink tea. wear a white dress when when everyone wants to wear black. go dancing. enjoy the freeness of your short hair despite the fact that you wish it was long. walk barefoot. think about the future for a minute or two, get excited about it, and then leave it for the future to take care of.

in short,  chill out, silly girl. chill out.




just because it’s christmas, future gentleman caller;

blueridge                                                       blue ridge mountains circa summer 2009

*this post was brought to you by the fact that i listened to too much mumford and sons this morning and thus got extremely sentimental.

dear future gentleman caller,

i know you’re out there. i know you’re not just a kennel full of cats, like some of my friends joke about. i know it i know it i know it.

i know you’re out there, celebrating christmas with your family. giving noogies to your younger brother and last minute christmas shopping. sloppily gift-wrapping, and slapping on a shiny bow just  for good measure.

not to insult you, but despite all of this knowledge of mine, i’m not looking for you. i don’t search for your face in crowds, in facebook pictures of my friends.

really and truly. because i know you’re there, and each day the universe and the cosmos and that big man upstairs brings us at least a few inches closer. or possibly you’re right under my nose and i’ve just not noticed it yet (in which case touche, god).

and that’s enough for me. the knowledge that you are out there is enough to make my eager eyes simmer down a bit. that and the daydreams of things and events i cannot wait to experience. hopefully this doesn’t creep you out. but then again, if you find me endearing in any shape or form, you will have had to have found my awkward creepiness endearingly precious….hopefully:

i can’t wait to be your biggest fan. cheering you on at church softball games, when you slide into first base like the meek, oh-so humble show-off i expect you to be at times (or endearingly douche-baggy) . and the same from you. as i stand on any stage, whatever performance art i choose to pursue (or all of them, i do have that goal of being a ‘jill-of-all-trades’ after all). and if i do choose all of them, i do solemnly apologize for the lack of space in your schedule, and the loss of your voice from cheering me on.

i can’t wait for you to be interrogated by my brother. i’m sorry. this is just the secret sadist in me. and i just know this will be an incredible sight to behold. and i’m not going to lie, he might corner you in a dark room, with only a flashlight in his had and ask you what your whereabouts were on november 24th, 2007 at 8 pm.

i can’t wait for us to go to the mountains, the blue ridge mountains preferably. throwing snow in your face and running away coyly. but then waking up the next morning for snow in my boots. thanks a lot, douchebag.

oh man, and france. and montreal. and san francisco. remind me that we need to go to normandy and see mont st. michel. this is very important to the future of our relationship, i can assure you.

and though it sucks to be single during the holiday seasons for most people, i find it freeing. because i’m not with someone for the sake of having someone to drink silk soy milk  nog with. or shop for presents with. or have someone to sit with me at christmas eve mass at midnight. all of those things would be nice, but not important.

and besides, you’re too busy giving noogies to your younger siblings. and i’m too busy watching “bedknobs and broomsticks” with my mother on christmas night under my hot pink snuggie blanket with sleeves.

and i know that on that christmas, we will have a fight about what is the best christmas song ever made (it’s ‘hard candy christmas’ by dolly parton, by the way. ‘last christmas’ by wham is a close second, but nothing comes close to d-parts). and when we do have that christmas in the mountains, please don’t put too much snow in my boots.

because i will, i repeat, I WILL, make sure an epic snowball will find its way square between your eyes. point blank. i take no prisoners, buddy-boy.

and that’s my way of saying merry christmas to you. enjoy your day, boy. and i will mine. as i know that it has me inching my way closer to your noogie-giving self.

and that’s enough for me.




currently listening to ‘the cave’// mumford and sons

oh so suddenly;

BAWSTUHN 101edit                                              cambridge, circa november 2010


dear boston,

oh so suddenly, i miss the blind men singing etta james and billie holliday in the subways. where i could choose to go towards boston college or towards the government center, i chose to linger for a few trains longer as i sat, enjoying the blind man singing, the glow of the dunkin donuts sign providing an unknown glare upon his sunglasses.

i miss cafe pamplona. and its soy montrealers. and being able to sit there for hours without being rushed. and the studious boys perched behind their macbook pros. and hearing the church bells clang in the little basement cafe. and how much i would much rather finish “zorba the greek” at the chair in front of the only window instead of in my noisy house. and holy crap, those soy montrealers. they deserve another mention. they really do.

i love that i can wear anything i like when i’m within your confines. i don’t have to dilute myself down, taking off my purple tights because the old ladies at the grocery store stare and snicker. or people ask me if i lost a bet. or if i am wearing a costume. you don’t care if i wear a purple wig, or am wearing a fake mustache. which is nice, i like to have my options open.

and cambridge, your creepy cemeteries. and old men selling old books on the sidewalks. and harvard bookstore, oh man. i just miss you the most. the most the most the most.

but i just want to let you know boston, i’m quite smitten with you.

so please, oh please, do not break my heart.

but if you do, i’ll take a soy montrealer to go, please.


to my future gentleman-caller;


Okay, so here’s a little confession:

I keep a journal where I write incredibly dorky, sometimes humorous, most of the time nerdy, love letters to my future husband gentleman-caller for life (the word “husband” weirds me out. it’s like “cankles” to me).

Which, in the context of all the other journals I’ve ever filled, should not sound as weird. Whenever I write in my paper journals, I almost always address them to someone, either animate or inanimate. My favorites are the funny ones addressed to my future mother-in-law and children. 

Which, I’m now realizing might make me sound much more delusional than ever before, which was the opposite of what I was trying to do…

But without further ado, here is a snippet of one of my letters. I hope to do a series of these, but then again I’m not sure of how much shame I will have left after this one gets published.

dear future gentleman-caller,

when I think of you, i’m filled with images of trendy townhomes in various metropolises. labrador puppies tripping over their paws ,  affectionately scratching its vintage wooden floors.  we will laughingly, and slowly but surely realize we will never get our security deposit back to said townhomes.

and that’s okay. ‘cause we will cause a raucous wherever we go. and we will be used to the fact that no one will ever give us our security deposits back on the various places we will inhabit. and we will be flattered by that fact. we were just too much fun.

we will sing and dance like fred and ginger to the high heavens as we make endearingly-burnt-to-a-crisp pancakes on sundays at 11:37 am. annoying all the neighbors with our games of tag up the stairs, stomping our shoes up and down each flight.

the soggy uneaten pancakes left on the end-tables will bother me at first, but when i realize you allow me to debate about the harry potter books (and win), i will forget that they ever existed. when you get quiet and won’t want to be my arm-candy to parties on fridays with our friends, but will prefer playing black-ops, i won’t get mad; ‘cause i’ll remember that you watched ‘amelie’ with me, and didn’t mind that i mouthed all the words in english and broken french. for two hours straight. and demanded you kissed me on the eye-lids like nico does in that movie. i’ll stay home with you and play black-ops too. because living up to the movie ‘amelie’ is really damn hard.

you’ll go on lots of adventures prior to when you meet me. i’ll try not to get jealous that i didn’t get to go on them, of course. as it means i still have a guaranteed hour of you telling me stories about that time you got mugged by a czech gypsy in a cab in prague . your face lighting up when you get to the punch line of the story, so proud that you could make me laugh as you think it an honor. but i will go on lots of adventures too, so please be patient with the fact that when i start a story about them, i usually never finish it. i just remember eight other stories and start those. bear with me, i’m probably just excited to talk to you. take it as a compliment that i can’t finish my thoughts when i get the chance to tell you a story.

we don’t need to watch ‘the notebook’. in fact, i’d very much prefer we don’t. that movie makes me sleepy. and it makes me angry that it has messed up so many thirteen year old girls in the head about love. let’s watch ‘when harry met sally’, instead okay? please? i’ll make you cookies?

but really, please don’t make me watch ‘the notebook’. that’s just unforgiveable and worse than soggy pancakes left out on the end table.



p.s. make sure you have sweatshirts that you don’t mind never wearing again. as i will be stealing them. sorry, it’s just a girlfriend rite-of-passage, and i’ve been wanting to steal my future gentleman-caller’s sweatshirts for years. i like the really old and faded ones, by the way.




xo, m.


currently listening to ‘airplanes’//local natives