An Open Letter to the Cello Player on 7th and E Street

This is the letter that I've written for the cello player on 7th and E Street. I would have delivered it, if I actually meant any of it and/or I was an absolutely crazy person. Unfortunately, neither apply in this situation. However, I did want to share with you the pain of heartbreak, unrequited love, and the pang of spending entirely too much money on gourmet cupcakes.

Hey you.

I don’t know your name—just simply “Cello Player Who Sits at 7^th and E Every Afternoon.” I wanted to write this to you because, well, it’s time I explain myself. Okay, it’s time that I explain us. You see, we met for the first time almost a week ago. It will actually be a week tomorrow. #HappyAnniversary! I passed you on the street and there you were, playing your cello. I’m pretty sure you were playing “Secrets” by One Republic. It’s one of my favorites—oh, you too? How ironic. Anyway, I immediately thought, “Sigh. This might be the person. You know, the person.” But alas, I came back to my office. I didn’t say anything until I asked my friend Maeve what I should do to which she said, “WWTD.” I’m assuming you don’t understand what that means—What Would Taylor Do? Yes, Taylor Swift. Because you play cello, I’m sure that sounds incredibly bass base to you; I apologize.

But I followed through, and I went back downstairs. I wanted to say something or impress you, but I didn’t know how, so I bought cupcakes. I took one for myself because, lesbihonest, it’s cupcakes. Then I took the other one, opened up the box, said, “Great cello playing. Hope you like cupcakes. –Justin” and then put my number. A friend pointed out that I gave you singular cupcake so technically the plurality might have led you to believe that someone else took the second cupcake, but “Hope you like cupcake” seemed weird. I did what felt right. You stole my heart, so I stole your extra cupcake.

Anyway, I gave it to you and you smiled because (a) liked me, (b) really like cupcakes, or (c) have nice manners. I hoped for a text or a call, but alas, that didn’t happen either. I was left behind, like a bow with worn out hairs. And let me tell you, you were my first and my last One Cupcake Stand. I know that I was kind of aggressive, but that’s just the city we live in. Love is patient. Love is kind. Love flies by you going 400 miles an hour, so if you don’t watch out, love will pass you by. You played your harmonious melodies and drew me in and then left me out in the cold. (Quite literally—it’s been frigid in DC lately.) You are a cello tease.

I’m not saying anything would have happened. But I can tell you what could have. I had a whole slew of puns like “Cello there, how are you?” and “Bach dirty to me,” but we’ll never get to use those, will we? I imagined it going really well and then one day, we’d spend our lives together. We’d lounge around after a long day. You’d get up and fix some type of drink and then play something simple on a stringed instrument, and then I would… watch. Because that’s pretty much the limitation of my skill set—looking at things… and cooking. Oh, and last night I found out that I can do a really good version of Forrest Whitaker’s eyes, but that’s neither here nor there. I had a life planned. A world that could have belonged to us, but it was over before it started.

I consider crying sometimes when I think about it—the situation, your cello, that cupcake… life, really. But I don’t because as Amy Winehouse once said, “My tears dry on their own.” But my biggest issue is that you continue to return to the corner of the street that I work on. You sit there, smugly, playing some classical piece and you see me walk by for my tri-daily trip to CVS to pick up an assortment of necessities. You don’t even say a word. I am Adam Sandler in a remake of 50 First Dates, except it’s not 50 First Dates. It’s 50 First Break-Ups. And then I think of that cupcake. Do you know how much white people pay for cupcakes? That was like, nearly $4.00. That’s the price of 2 cakes in 1962. For all intents and purposes, let’s look at it that way. I bought you two 1962 cakes, and you didn’t even care. Sometimes I wonder if you even ate it. You probably are gluten-free. God, you would be gluten free.

You might have even ruined the cello, no, ALL string instruments for me. And that sucks because I really love string instruments. You took Vitamin String Quartet from me, and that’s almost harder because everything they do is fantastic. They’ve literally covered every song in existence. For God’s sake they did “The Best of Nickelback” and “The Best of Nickelback 2.” I didn’t even know there was enough Nickelback to make a “Best Of” album, let alone, two. And you know what? I probably even enjoyed them. That’s how amazing they are, and that’s the amount of damage you’ve done. The only thing I want to thank you for is taking a little more Nickelback out of my life. For that, I am truly grateful.

It all makes sense now. I may not be the kind of guy you’re into. I’m commercial and fun and witty and mainstream. You sit on the corner playing your cello and you’re interesting and shit. It’s whatever. But you remember—it was mainstream music that brought us together, and it was your inability to love that tore us apart. As I close, I quote Taylor one more time, “I should have said no. I should have gone home. I should have thought twice before I put down a mortgage on two freaking cupcakes.”

In Christ,

Justin

If Sandy Gets Friskier Than Expected

If you've been watching the news, you know that there is a little mess called Hurricane Sandy headed up the East Coast; if you're really into meteorology, then you know there's also a cold front busting in from the West. Essentially, what's supposed to happen is those things are supposed to meet up, and in about four days time, yours truly will be playing the part of Jake Gyllenhaal in a remake of The Day After Tomorrow. Essentially, it's supposed to be a hurricane with winter-like conditions which has me boggled as to whether I should purchase a parka or board up my windows.
As an English and Writing major in undergrad, I'm staunchly opposed to burning books, so once we run out of wooden things to burn in the apartment, we're pretty much done for. And as for food, I'm down to a box of Strawberry Frosted Flakes, 9 mini bags of Doritos, some pesto, pretzels and hummus, and some Disney Princess Spaghetti-Os that is dented on the side. Knowing myself on a hungry day, those perishables will be gone in approximately 4-8 hours. I'm not eating Andrew because I theorize that he tastes like cardboard and long-standing disappointment, and I'm not eating Ben because sometimes he growls at me when we're not in a crisis. So that leaves me with a laptop to catalog my dying thoughts, however many Schweppes ginger ales I can acquire between now and Saturday, and all those pictures I have on my wall. After that, I suspect it will be pretty grim, but I will do everything in my power to maintain as much humor and handsomeness as Leonardo DiCaprio did when he froze to death/drowned back in 1998. And hell... I might be so resourceful in this whole mess that I could survive to see another hurricane.
So with all that being said, I want to get some things out there that I may not get the chance to later, but I think they're important. This is a moment where I'm going to be so honest with you that it may hurt, but I need you to remember that once Wednesday comes all you'll have of me is memories and whatever you can find of my frozen-Jello-Puddin-Pop body. Turn to these stories and think of me fondly. Laugh at and/or with me, and if anyone can ever figure out my Gmail password, I encourage you to continue telling my scandalous stories as a ghost writer... but do it well, because if you don't, I will haunt your ass and give "ghost writer" a whole new meaning.
First and foremost, if things don't go so well, don't look at my search history on Google. Actually, don't touch my computer at all... just throw it away, preferably in a recyclable and safe area so that otters don't choke on it or that its chemical contents don't taint the drinking water of future children. It's not so much for the standard "don't look at my computer" reasons, but more so because I think that some of the search queries in there (without proper explanation) have the ability to defame my reputation for years to come. Some examples: how to make meth,   Columbine and other school shootings, Ryan Gosling, "kitten cannon," and one of the most atrocious "Who is Kim Kardashian dating?" My computer is my fortress for all the knowledge that I'd like to gain without actually having to ask other people. It's full of my utmost personal writing, letters that I've written to people but refuse to send, blackmail pictures of people I don't like, and too many screenshots of Kittens Inspired By Kittens to count. As my dear friend Bridget once said in regard to anal sex, Don't touch it. Don't look at it. Don't even think about it.

If in fact the worst does happen, I respectfully ask that my tombstone is engraved with the message He Went Down Hand Jivin', which I find to be completely appropriate considering that I will have met my demise via a storm named "Sandy." Sure, there will be some people who believe that the entire thing was done in poor taste, but those who know me best will understand just how poignant and fitting it is. I love to dance, specifically things that already have a set rhythm and form. It wasn't but just two weeks ago after two Long Island Teas and some wine that I felt it completely necessary to only ballroom dance at the bar that my friends and I went to. Yes, it embarrassed them (and me, both) once it was all said in done, but if you could have seen my frame when attempting to waltz to David Guetta's "Without You," you would understand.
And over the next couple days, when you think of me as you're sitting in your non-East-coastal homes in the luxury of windows that are not blown out and floors that have not become the lining of a makeshift kiddie pool, understand that this is exactly what I've been hoping for since the inception of Grey's Anatomy and every other TV drama I've watched since circa 2004. If all goes as planned, I will survive because in my mind, this hurricane Sandy business is just the November sweeps episode of this season of my life. Something big has to happen to get the ratings up, and sure, I may overdramatize the next couple days... and yes, my roommates may find me laying in the floor, completely uninjured as I'm listening to an Ingrid Michaelson song, but that's just kind of who I am. They'll leave me there, as I imagine that I have a broken leg or that I'm drowning, but in my mind, that's just the character arc that I need to go through while we're out of power for the next couple days.
In essence, the next couple days may be difficult, but I'm going to go ahead and take a guess and say I'll survive. There will be a lot of wine consumed and probably a lot of time spent reading. When I found out today that I got off of work and school, it was really exciting until I realized that there was no other place to go. So, if you don't hear from me for a while, the power has probably gone out and you can rest assured that I'm just sitting in the living room, staring at my roommates. But in the case of my untimely death, follow the two simple rules listed above, as well as these:

• Give my brother, Casey, full rights to all those Beanie Babies in my closet at home. Most of them were his anyway.
• Make a fan page for me on Facebook. Don't stop promoting it until I have 500 likes.
• Work on getting an annual holiday for me at Maryville College. I would say it shouldn't be hard, but let's be honest... there's like 1,000 hoops you're going to have to jump through.
• Sprinkle my ashes at Dollywood, preferably off Daredevil Falls.

Yeah, that's pretty much it. Wish me luck.