Another semester, another round of Letters I Won't Be Sending Any Time Soon:
To the student wearing the cologne so strong that it lingers in the hallway long after you've left: If people hold their breath and ease away from you as you walk down the hall, it's not because we don't like you; it's just really hard to breathe when your cologne is actively capturing every oxygen molecule in the building and holding it hostage. Is there no one close enough to let you know that your presence is as pleasant as can of Raid sprayed straight in the face?
To the colleague who finally guilted me into going back to work out at the Rec Center: Thanks so much for inspiring me to stand in front of my locker looking clueless as I tried to remember the clever mnemonic device for my locker combination. I know it starts with "Seventy-Six Trombones," but the numbers on my lock don't go up to 76 so it took me a while to figure out where to go from there.
To the person driving the red pickup truck in front of me last Saturday: I'll remember you always, not just because you were carrying in the bed of your truck the ugliest sofa I've ever seen (garish velvet in orange, red, green, and gold), but because after I'd followed you straight through town on my way to the car wash Saturday morning, and after I'd taken some time to wash all the winter gunk and bird blessings off my car and vacuum the rugs and clean the dashboard, I pulled out of the car wash and found myself following you again, all the way through town in the other direction. (Unless there are two sofas that ugly in the world, which doesn't seem likely.) Nothing personal, but I hope you're not going to make this a habit. That sofa makes my eyeballs explode.