Dear The Job,

I know I've written you angry letters in the past, and let's be honest, I will probably continue to do so in the future because I'd rather be a full time artist. That said, I really don't hate you, and in the spirit of Christmas cheer, I wanted to tell you what I like about you. After all, much as I complain sometimes, the fact remains I haven't left you, which in itself is a testament to your not being all bad.

• My coworkers are intelligent, competent, and responsible. I can rely on them to do what they said they'd do, and it's a pleasure to help them out when I can.
• They're also funny. Never underestimate the power of humor.
• The work is challenging. In a bigger sense, I'd rather find my challenge in creative pursuits, but I am glad to have a challenging job right now that's actually teaching me skills that I can apply to those creative pursuits someday.
• You pay me. It's been a year and a half and I'm still beside myself every time I get a paycheck that's over the federal poverty level.
• You do good things. It's kind of a thrill to work for a company that's at the top of its game and plans to stay there. It can add to the stress level, sure, but there's also something incomparable about feelng you're making a difference somewhere.
• You have good food.
• You look cool. The architecture nut in me geeks out about your campus and the design that went into it. Your focus on making function look cool—drains that look like waterfalls; hallways that look like movie sets—delights me when I take a moment to really see it.

So, while I definitely need the vacation that's coming up in two days, and while I'm probably spending between 10 and 13 hours with you today and tomorrow each, I'll come back in January because there are some things I'm really happy about with you.

Merry Christmas,

B

Dear Baron Julian Fellowes,

That's it. I'm done. Through. Over.

I know I said this at the end of last season, but for real, I mean it this time. To keep my letters spoiler-free, I'll refrain from saying any more, but after that headlining episode mid-season, I wondered if the only reason I stayed tuned might be because I had friends coming over to watch it every week.

Now, after what you've done tonight, I have to tell you the shaky ground we've been on all season has officially crumbled beneath our feet. There's no turning back. And if I weren't so tired, I could say this with fewer clichés. Not that you seem to mind them, yourself.

Nice job with the artsy landscape shots of the Highlands. I will say that. But not Rose nor Sybbie nor the miracle of Mary's 25-inch waistline at 8 months gestation will draw me in next January.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Large Corporation That Hired Me Last June,

I've made it eight months, and I count that as a victory miracle blackout ... well, it's something. Probably mostly a sign of my impending insanity.

Thanks for paying me. It's really nice to buy a DVD without worrying about what meal I'll have to skip so I can afford it, and it's really rather awesome seeing my savings account grow instead of shrink for the first time in five years. When I bought my new peacoat on sale for 80% off, it was a pleasant surprise at the checkout, not a necessary reduction so I could also pay rent. It's good being financially sound.

All I'm saying is, I don't really like these 9- and 10-hour workdays that are starting to become regular. I don't like that I come home at 7:30, too tired to eat dinner let alone make it, shower, collapse in bed, and wake up a few hours later to start it all over again. I don't like that I can project a 57-hour workweek and my boss doesn't say, "That's too much," but instead says, "So, things are going well?" I don't like sitting at my desk, dizzy from exhaustion, ready to cry, and knowing it's only Monday afternoon. And I don't like writing about software.

(There. I said it.)

I'm still confused what you, a corporation that hires only 1% of applicants and recruits heavily from Ivy schools, saw in my application and interview, why you decided I would be a good fit. But even more so, I'm confused why you're the only place I applied to that even gave me an interview, much less an offer. I've made it eight months, and after four more, maybe that full year of experience on my résumé will give me whatever it is I need to move on, move out, and move away from the "hyper competitive and quasi abusive" work environment you've developed to separate the career-focused all stars from the 9-to-5ers who have already chosen their career and need only a means of paying for it. All I'm asking is for a 40-hour workweek. I haven't had one of those since 2008.

In other news, I'm getting my first creative piece published in a recognized journal. It is, in fact, the only thing keeping me going each day, this little secret I'll never really tell you about, the deep-down, this-is-who-I-really-am nugget of creativity. My real career.

Insincere hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Guitars,

I love you so utterly deeply that it's almost embarrassing. Last night, listening to one of your brethren in the expert hands of my string-strumming friend, I was transported.

Life, for a short time, seemed incomprehensibly good.

As Shakespeare once wrote, how is it that sheep's guts can hail the souls from men's bodies? And while I know that my friend's guitar is strung with steel, the sentiment is the same. He plucked, and he strummed, and he played his fingers across the frets, and I was truly happy.

You are a gift straight from God, and I am so thankful for friends who can play you well.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Trader Joe's,

Thanks for selling prewashed, ready-to-eat green beans that take zero effort to pull out of a fridge crisper and shove into my face while I veg exhaustedly on the sofa after a weeklongfeeling Monday. While I channel my inner e. e. cummings and make up my own words, you provide me with more nourishing foodstuffs than the rather more tempting jar of Nutella in the back of my cabinet or the potato chips that I neglected to purchase for my eatallthethings mood.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear B,

I know you're exhausted. I know that the one thing you want from this weekend is to sleep and not go anywhere or be expected to do anything, that your body is collapsing from sleep deprivation and office furniture, and your mind is overwhelmed with planning, organizing, and learning.

But this isn't the weekend you get to rest. Neither will next weekend, probably, or the one after that. In other words, your days of rest are over. If you're going to hold a job that keeps you out of the house for 12 hours a day and get things done like shopping and post office visits, you're going to have to get used to the dizziness that comes from sleep deprivation, the piles of things-to-do on every surface of your apartment, the sink perpetually full of dirty dishes, and the closet full of old clothes you'll have to wear because you don't have energy to go shopping for new ones. This sounds crazy to you after your freelancer days, but it's perfectly normal. You may feel like the waking dead, but so do all the other 20-something full-time workers out there.

And just think. Half of them have kids.

Hugs & kisses,

B

Dear Logic,

I appreciate your efforts, I really do. But sometimes, no matter how much you present the reasonable side of things, it just won't make my emotions budge. I'll stay angry, depressed, bored, or ecstatic whether it's at all logical or not. The past week has been logically awesome, but my emotions can't seem to keep up. Don't stop trying to reason me back over to normal, but please don't expect me to always make sense. Sometimes I just only have it in me to be a Marianne Dashwood, rather than her sensible sister Elinor.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Past Four Years of a Freelancer's Schedule,

Please don't make the New Job impossible for me to adjust to. I know I've gotten used to waking up, carrying my breakfast to my desk, and working half the day in my pajamas before I bother to brush my teeth. I know I'm used to breaking in the middle of the day to go do my laundry while the 'mat is practically empty or get groceries before the post-5:00 rush. I know I'm used to biking to a coffee shop for a change of scene when I need to jog my brain in a new direction. And even though I know I won't be able to do any of those things anymore at New Job, I'm trusting that your four years of freelancer habits won't completely ruin me on my first day tomorrow.

I'll miss you, freelancer's schedule. Perhaps we'll meet again someday.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Landlord, Landlady, God, and Timing,

Thank you so much for deciding to let me stay here. I didn't want to sound petulant and childish, but the idea of moving this fall—for the fifth time in six years—made me want to cry. It, in fact, did make me cry. Especially after seeing some of the apartments available elsewhere in the city within this price range, I couldn't bear the idea of leaving my garret, this neighborhood, or your family. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Creative Writing,

Sometimes you're so aggravatingly impossible that I wonder why I even bother trying.

Hugs & kisses,
B

Dear Coffee Shop Patrons,

You there, giggling loudly over board games on a Tuesday morning.  Do you see me?  Nursing three books, my computer, and a sugar-free latte?  Head tucked down, hair falling into my eyes, trying to think?  It's hard work, this thinking.  But you, you laugh about your game and your free schedule and your happy brain sighs in relief.  What then should I do?    

Love,

A

This guest letter brought to you by my dear friend A.