To the guy I dated for eight months but refused to call my boyfriend. I know it’s too late, but thank you for all the frittatas you made for me. I’ll never forget them.
To the FedEx guy, for hiding my package in the bushes so well. I hope you hide all my packages in the future. It’s a fun game we play. I understand that now.
To my childhood friend, for losing touch after kindergarten. It’s just . . . you were a crayon person, and I’m a Sharpie girl. Those differences only grow more glaring over time.
To my dermatologist. I’m sorry for saying that your degree didn’t count after you told me there was something we could do about my crow’s-feet. Online medical schools have come a long way.
To everyone I went to high school with who has a baby now and heard me suggest that owning a dog is basically the same thing. Yeah, it’s not.
To my mom, for leaning on you for virtually everything at all times and then demanding, with great indignation, that you stay out of my goddam business. My bad! You always make the best pre-dinner snacks.
To my college friend Rachel, for missing your Zoom wedding. I know I told you my Internet was down. The truth is I was rewatching “Normal People.”
To my best friend in middle school, whom I pushed too hard on the swings. I didn’t know my own strength.
To my third ex-boyfriend. I’m sorry for breaking up with you, actively trying to get back together, and then immediately breaking up with you again. But, hey, you’re the one in a secure, loving relationship now. I’m over here writing this list! So, in a way, we’re even?
To the piano instructor I had when I was ten. You were right all along. I was never practicing outside of our lessons. Now I can barely play “Clair de Lune” at dinner parties.
To Lindsey Murray, whose surprise party I ruined in the fourth grade. In my defense, it really seemed like you knew about it already. I hope life has brought you many unspoiled moments of astonishment.
To my brother. I’m sorry for getting you finger puppets for Christmas one year when you bought me a really nice watch. I see now that it is unacceptable to give homemade presents when you’re thirty.
To the environment, for continuing to shop on Amazon. It’s just so fast.
To the grocery-store clerk whom I painstakingly paid with exact change at closing time.
To my roommate, whose face wash I’ve used every day for the past six months. Also, sorry for the sex noises.
To my downstairs neighbors. Yeah, you’ve probably heard the sex noises, too, huh? Don’t you wish we could all afford nicer apartments?
To every nickel I’ve confused for a quarter.
To the kids I babysat when I was sixteen. I’m sorry I made you go through your elementary-school yearbook with me and shit-talk everyone in your grade.
To the influencer I unfollowed on Instagram because her content was feeling too sad lately. It’s just, like, how many times can you take a picture of antique vases that look like melted candle wax?
To anyone who has ever had the misfortune of talking to me before 11 A.M.
To my accountant, who has told me at least ten times to save my business receipts. I didn’t want you to see how many times I went to Chick-fil-A and wasn’t sure it could be considered a business expense.
To me, for all the shitty things I’ve told myself about my mind, my body, my most essential being. I’m sorry for neglecting you. I’m sorry for diminishing you when all you needed was to be lifted up. You deserve better than that. And your hair looks great. I love that new half-up, half-down thing you’re trying! Definitely pulling it off.
To all the people reading this who were wronged but not included. Part 2 is coming soon.
