Friday, December 29, 2006

Dear People who don't reply to emails,

I'd like to believe that my initial email to you got lost, never went through or tragically fell victim to your junk box. The truth is some peeps simple don't care to correspond with me which (clearly because I am crazy) just makes me want to email you people even more.
Sadly with all the communication technology out there we are blessed/burdened with endless excuses of why we do not respond: "my cell has been acting up" or "oh my computer sucks" or "I hate you."
The worst of al of these techno whatnots being MySpace mail, in which when a message is sent it allows the sender (me) to see that the recipient (you) has in fact read my message but has chosen not to grace me with a note back.This being perhaps the thing that pierces open my adolescent wounds most.
I just have a hard time believing somebody could dislike me. ( because not having time or remembering to reply to an email obvioulsy means I am disliked. Ahem, somebody needs to get over the fact that she had a horrific bully best friend in 9th grade who destroyed her self-esteem).
I know I must consider that perhaps you all have better things to do then be online all day. You are probably busy doing other things like stealing candy from babies and making left turns without using your signal. I know your type ( but that's the type I wanted to see. Get it like I know your type of person but I want to see your type as in typing me an email. Haha! Good one right? Ha. No?)
Well, tis neither here not there. I hope that in 2007 I realize the world does not in fact revolve around me and that you people aren't banning together to all mark me as spam. I mean it's not like you are even thinking about me as much as I think about you?
But if you are reading this, my site, I guess you do think about me. Hmmmm?
Regardless, I wish that this lovely new year bring you nothing but an inbox illed with Nigerian bank fraud attempts, penis enlargement advertisements and announcements that your ex-boyfriend/girlfriend who broke your heart recently got married to somebody much better looking.
Love Always,


Wednesday, December 27, 2006

Dear Starbucks,

I love your Christmas Blend brew. I love your red cups. These two simple pleasures give me such joy each year. I am not kidding, I really do adore your holiday flavors and colors. So when I woke up this morning and came into your store I was so very excited to see that Christmas Blend was on the chalk board as "now brewing" and there was a stack of red cups beside the register. I got a twang of thrilling glee in my soul. (It really takes so little to make me happy). So you can imagine my dismay when the frowny face barista informed me that you were out of Christmas Blend and "would you like House Blend instead?"
Choice-less I said "sure" knowing that while the blend may not be ideal, the rich red cup would provide half of the happiness I came into your store to purchase.
So now you can imagine my horror when my House Blend was handed to me in a WHITE CUP! Somehow, for some reason unfathomable to me I was given the only white cup in the shop! Out of all the dozens upon dozens of red cups dancing about your meca of merriment, I get my fucking bland brew in a bland white cup!
Is this a joke? Is Ashton Kutcher about to pop out from behind the velour cozy chair and tell me I am Punk'd? Is December 27th like April Fool's Day in the Starbucian heritage? Is this little sour pussed barista really a Girl Behaving Badly? Seriously Buckers, what the friggity-foo is going on here!?
I took the white cup with the House Blend and drank it as I held back my tears. Oh how I wanted to throw it in someone, anyone's face. I wanted to jump up and down and kick my feet like I used to when Daddy forget to get me my Happy Meal with pickles and ketchup only (yes, once upon a time I was afraid of mustard. I wanted to holler " You dildos really should erase the words Christmas Blend from the chalkboard before you destroy peoples dreams or are you too busy grooving out to this fucking John Legend cd that's been on repeat in here for the last two freaking months!?" I wanted to take every gosh darn Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer from the clearance shelf and hump them ( okay that one has nothing to do with your lack of Christmas Blend or red cups. Ooops. Ha. Ha. Ha?)
But no. I bit my tounge and went on my way. I mean I am back into yoga (but not enough to give up caffeine) and my heart center would not approve of such angered antics. I mean afterall it is something Christmas-related that I am getting so heated over and that just seems wrong.
Look Bucks, I love you and clearly I love your seasonal products so perhaps you could figure out a way to serve these two delights year-round. Well, okay perhaps not the blend. I get the marketing behind having a special holiday flavor. But those cups! I mean frankly, white cups are sooooooo Dunkin' Doughnuts anyhoo. Red cups exude warmth, style, class. The switch from red cups back to white is so shocking and cold.
But no need to make these changes just for little ol' me but if you could at least till New Years, hide the white cups. They scare me.
Love Always,

Tuesday, December 26, 2006

Dear Chodes in Church,

I forced myself to stay up on Christmas eve so I could attend midnight mass only to be surrounded by dozens of loud preppy, white hat wearing "yeah dudes." You dinks come to church just to save face but spend the entire service giggling like little pre-pubescent boys who just saw their first real live tit. A few of you reeked of Jack Daniels. You punch fists, give your boyeeez head knods across the pews,and loudly whisper to one another news of your "wicked sweet new caaarrrrr."
Look, I go to church 4 maybe 5 times a year and I'd appreciate those few and far between visits to be silent and sacred. Isn't there a Dave and Busters you all can go and have your fatty fratty reunion at?
Love Always,

Monday, December 25, 2006

Dear Bus Santa,

I use a lot of web space complaining and pointing fingers on this here site. People do dumb things but just as many people do really nice things and I want to spread some cyber hugs to the folks who are the anti-douches. So once a week ( maybe more) I will post letters of praise to the folks who make living a little nicer and I am going to start withyou, the woman who handed out $50 to random people on buses in Spokane, Washington. You inspire me little lady, not only to do more nice things but do them without the expectation of credit and praise for my actions.
Thanks for making the holidays a little merrier for strangers.
Love Always,


Friday, December 22, 2006

Dear Diddy, (again)

Wad up dawg? Literally, well your dog collar. I don't mean dog collar like attached to a leash I mean like fur collar made from a dog. Well, canine racoons. Yes Diddy, you were busted for selling jackets with "faux fur" collars at Macys that were actually made with dog fur. YUCK! That's ruff Diddle-doo-di or whatever you are calling yourself these days.
Well it's a good thing that this is all out in the open so that next time one of your homies asks "where my dogs at?" you can reply honestly.
Love Always,
PS. Don't worry, if you invite me I guess I will still go to your white party in the Hamptons.

Tuesday, December 19, 2006

Dear Butterfinger Chocolate Holiday Bells,

Get out of my mouth! I cannot stop and you keep unwrapping your sweet self and slipping down my throat. You are so damn good, you are bad.
Love Always,

Thursday, December 14, 2006

Dear Holidays,

I love you. With all your spirits and cheer I am feeling much too social and merry to write about douchebags. For the most part everyone starts to act pretty damn cool this time of year. I mean I'm sure I'll get mad about something sooner or later but for now I am taking the rest of this week off to down some nog and duck beneath mistletoe. I suggest everyone do the same.
Love Always,

Tuesday, December 12, 2006

Dear Public Nail-clipper,

It takes a real classy fella to clip their nails as they walk down the street in Brooklyn. It takes an even classier guy to not even acknowledge that as he is clipping them so harshly his nasty, dirty finger nails go flying towards passer-bys ( ahem, me).
Seriously dude, get a room.
Love Always,

Monday, December 11, 2006

Dear Bret Michaels,

So it's come to this huh?
Do you recall the photo (attached here on the left) of me and all my Poison paraphernalia I sent to you back in 1990 along with a letter professing my affections for you? I was obsessed with you and your very pretty pretty face. My poor immigrant mother was horrified by what she thought were pictures of manly looking women on my walls, but I didn't care, I was in love and my mother's lesbian misconcepted fears weren't going to stop me. What did stop me was my sudden switch from headbanger to pop music/hip hopper in 1992. I started to appreciate the smooth R & B sounds of Jodeci and wanted to impress my then crush whom was of African-American decent. When he called I made sure to casually ask him to hold putting the phone beside my pink boom box blasting "let me lick you up and down, till you say stop, let me play with your body baby, make you real hot."
But this letter isn't me trying to rub it in your face that I moved on when you ignored my letter and modeling portfolio it's about how you are about to star in a reality show to find true love when true love was staring at you in the face in August of 2001 (please refer to the attached photo on the right) Do you remember me? After over 10 years of giving up on you and me I still finageled my way backstage at the Poison concert in Worcester MA five years ago. As soon asyou hit the stage all those feelings came rushing back as you hollowed about not needing anything but a good time and dammit, I am a fucking good time. After sweet talking your cousin into getting me and my pal Margot backstage I got to sit on your lap like Santa Claus and tell you how awesome you were. I used the word awesome an estimated 47 times in five sentences and you sat there and just let me go on, I assume mezmerized by my charm. When your body guard singled that my time was up and their were either little girls waiting to ask you for a pony you looked into my eyes and said in your deep, booming voice " You're beautiful." I walked away and began to cry. Dreams do come true, even if it is 11 years later.

Backstage ( aka a parking lots full of trailers) was crawling with lame little "fans." Older chicks who had baked you diabetic cookies ( how cute) and that wanted you to sign their concert booklets ( adorable). Once those civilians left, your cousin invited me and Margs to stick around for the real rock star soiree. I was expecting the party to involve strippers and cocaine, but I was fine with sitting on your tour bus with Margot, your cousin, his friend, you and two passed out drunk girls on your bed.
I spent those could be magical 30 minutes over-explaining why I used the word awesome moments earlier and that I was not in fact the dork I made myself out to be and that I think you are great and that I sent you photos and asked if you got them and then took my hair and wrapped it around my forehead to indicate I used to have a uni-brow you may not recognize me from those old pics when I was going through puberty and was not yet introduced to tweezers and then when someone mentioned something about pot I made joke that I am anti-pot even though I was baked out of my skull and then I laughed hysterically at my own joke and then in an effort to redeem any lasting ounce of coolness I decide to interview you ala Tiger Beat style and ask "what was the craziest thing a fan has ever done to meet you?"
Before I knew it we were off your bus. I think I hugged you goodbye a little too long. One of the drunk corpse's woke up and you closed your trailer door I assume to have wild, rockstar sex.
I thanked your cousin for his hospitality by making out with him awkwardly in the parking lot thinking at least I got sexy with a member of your family and that's something.
So what I am saying Bret is, I am a bit disappointed that you had two chances at true love but yet you are choosing to go on national TV and have women throw themselves at you. I mean I guess I am taking this as you saying "no" to any chance of me and you. Right? Just want to be sure cause I am getting married next year and just want to be sure this "TV show" isn't a ply to make me jealous and then you are going to come crawling back.
Best of luck to you Bret, I am sure you're gonna find yourself a really classy broad this way.
Love Always, Giulia

PS. A year after our 2001 rendevous, I was working on a guitar show that featured Poison ( it never aired) and my producer had your number in her cell. She even left you a message in front of my face. I almost, ALMOST took her phone to get the number but I resisted. Looks this lil' lady has grown up quite a bit.


Friday, December 08, 2006

Dear Crazy Cab-driver #2,

Last night after you sped through a yellow light, the black man crossing the street put his hands in the air and said (not screamed) "slow down." To which you hollared " Shut-up Monkey!"

This is not the first time I have witnessed racist cabbies which makes me super sad and disgusted.
I hope you get locked in a cage with a real monkey, a big, angry, hungry gorilla that throws poo at you.
Love Always,

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

Dear H&M,

I love everything about you. Your chic fashion. Your affordable style. I love it all, except ( yes in love there is always an exception) your attempt to resurrect womens overalls. I walked into your heavenly gates today only to find three, yes three types of overalls for females on your wall. Perhaps they were for extraordinarily tall tots and were misplaced in the ladies section but I am most certain these farming frocks were for women.
Please H&M, don't go there. Don't go back to 1995 when overalls were wiggidy wiggdy wack. Bring on the babydolls, the sweater dresses, the skinny jeans and even the off-the shoulder 80's style tops, but for the love of all that is flattering and feminine don't bring cover-alls back.

Love Always,