Dear coffeeshops, I love the giant chalkboard you have hanging behind the cash register, but would it kill you to write something useful on it? This may come as a shock to you but nobody cares which Nicaraguan plantation was exploited to churn out your shitty cup of java. I’m asking for two things

The following is a letter to Red Wings Hockey Arena from the perspective of my mom who had a bad time there. Dear Wings Stadium, I always wondered just how thin the thread holding me together was, and after an evening at the Wings Stadium I’ve come to realize it’s razor.  First of all,

You may think I’m writing because I have a love for language and the written word. I don’t. I think language is stupid and there’s hardly any reason to be talking at all.  Our ancient ancestors spoke in grunts and slaps. They talked about berries and being chased to death by predators. Beyond that,