Dear Little Miss Pretentious Hipster,
But mostly, Little Miss Pretentious Hipster, I don't like you. I don't like you because you constantly flirt with my husband, and send him emails, and once told him that he was "so cute, that [you] wanted a pocket version of [him]." You, Little Miss Pretentious Hipster, may be indie, but you are also a bitch. I would love nothing more than to punch you in your little self-righteous face (perhaps then you can write a paper about the violence of women in American society, and make it totally work for you), but since you are my husband's "friend" and we are going to have to be casually acquainted for the next six years or so while you both slough your way through graduate school, I am just going to give you this handy dandy list of things that you can work on to make our future meetings at least civil.
1. Please do not lie about the origins of your clothes. That shirt did not come from a thrift store, unless of course the Urban Outfitters on Bancroft is now doubling as a Salvation Army. In the real world (may be not in this crazy world you have created for yourself) this sucks for two reasons: 1) Lying is bad and gets you bad karma, and 2) When you do this, and then I go and buy a dress from the same Urban Outfitters that you bought that shirt from, my husband complains about the price and talks about how some people shop at the thrift store. So don't lie. Or I will punch you.
2. Please do not tell my husband details of that porn film you did that time. You should know that one. Or perhaps this rule is not the same in your crazy, made-up world? Anyway, that's not acceptable conversation. Further, if you are thinking about doing more porn, here's an idea: Grow some boobs. I know that for my taste, when I am watching two people do the nasty, I like to know if I'm looking at their fronts or their backs. Just a thought. I guess you should also know that if you thought this was going to be confidential between you and my husband, it wasn't. He came home and told me all the juicy details. So ha ha.
3. I know that some people refer to a color of hair as "shoe polish black," but that doesn't mean they actually dye their hair with shoe polish. Look into that. It distracts me when I am talking to you, and makes me want to simultaneously shine my shoes and wash my hands. And also punch you.
4. And lastly, please do not spend your nights sending multiple emails to my husband. He and I have had numerous conversations about this, and have both decided that you are a touch needy (ok, he says you are a little needy, I say you are a raving psycho-bitch). So. Just. Stop. Someday I hope someone emails and flirts with your husband non-stop, just so I know that karma is alive and well. But you know, finding that husband may be a little harder than usual, given that most nice boys don't like to introduce their mamas to girls who suck man meat on film. Just a thought.
So, just try it out, and let's try not to come to blows before one of you graduates.
Thanks,
Me