Dear Open Letter,

I am over you. So over you, in fact, it is painful to have to write an open letter to you to let you know, but I believe making a public statement about a private matter is the right thing to do. You taught me that. And for that I should be grateful.

When I first saw you, you were magical. You opened up windows on the world I thought I’d never see -coming out of left field to praise the tired looking stranger you saw walking on the track or the person in the car behind you picking up the tab at Starbucks. Often you were warm-hearted. Sometimes you were funny. You disarmed me by using punctuation in ways I. Never. Dreamed.

When things were new I looked forward to seeing you frame the world in a fresh new light. I couldn’t wait to click on the full-version of you to dig a little deeper. Hell, I eventually absorbed you, took you in and rode your wordy wave. I even penned a fucking hysterical open letter to Dan Aykroyd. Seriously, go read it. It. Is. Fucking. Funny.

Oh, that? Was that rude? Imbedding random links into discourse to talk about myself and self-promote? Whoops. I learned from the best!

We used to look very smart together. I spent hours diving into you – writing, reading, telling my friends all about your greatness. We had this quick humor and the ability to say and see the unexpected in a quirky loveable way. We completed each other. Until we didn’t. Our cliche is a hideous cliche riddled with cliche.

See Open Letter Format, as you got more and more popular, I noticed your passive aggressive tendencies grow. You became predictable, formulaic. Your better than thou tone started to grate on me. And, you seemed willing to give yourself to any literate soul with a keyboard. Attention whore. Pathetic.

It’s not your fault. You are who you are. The truth of the matter is, I am tired of you. That’s probably my problem. I’m fickle. I hate myself for this. But, I admit I used you. I’m using you right now. You make it so damn easy to write.

You are fucking everywhere…get out of my head! “Dear Fart that Snuck Out While I Was Doing a Backbend in My Family Room Right When the Plumber Came Around the Corner Looking For Me: Thanks for Clearing Out.”  “Dear Hair on My Chin, Could You Be Any Longer?” You and me? It’s addiction, not love.

You make it so damn easy. That’s why this has to end. Right now. I mean now. Now. Please just close yourself off Open Letter self and make this easier….

Ugh. You’re still here? Still open? You will be OK. Many people adore you. You will probably couple with many writers and flood the internet with your offspring, while I’m still searching for my “One.” But, we are through. If it makes you feel any better, my mother still really loves you and has already told me to forget about stopping by for Thanksgiving Dinner. She’d rather see you at her table instead. You should write her a letter.

Krista Farris (aka the person who vows to head butt the person who writes an open letter about this open letter)

About the author: Krista Genevieve Farris’ poetry, essays and stories can be found in a variety of magazines and journals. Links can be found at She lives in Virginia with her husband and three sons, to whom she has never written an open letter about anything.


Krista's spirit animal is a Mountain Feist Pomeranian mix with a touch of capuchin and sidewalking crab. She is often found exercising, gardening, cooking or wandering while mentally working through writings. She makes excuses to dig in the dirt, figuratively and literally. But appreciates the sterility of the sparkling clean exercise studio where she has led fitness classes for two decades. She has degrees in cultural anthropology and puts those to good use by being human and writing about it. She believes good stories help create honest relationships and loves to hear what's up. A mother to three sons who are entering late teenhood and early manhood, she realizes homeostasis requires constant change and she is cool with that.

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