Another Letter to The Oppressor by Deb Danielle Younge-Ullman

Dear Oppressor,

I appreciate that you’ve found me a warmer house–I don’t mind being outside sometimes, but I prefer to spend my nights indoors. I enjoy your company, when you grace me with your presence and I have kept your secret about the music you play when we’re alone on the road–no one needs to know about your penchant for Poison, Whitesnake and Bon Jovi since we are, after all, urbanites. (If you grow your hair long again or perm it or frost the tips, all bets are off though.) I don’t even mind that you got yourself a nicer, younger and slightly larger version of me–clearly there is enough room for us both–in the garage and in your heart.

And yet I am feeling rather peevish, somewhat put-upon, as it were, about a certain aspect of our relationship and that program we were listening to on CBC about assertiveness has emboldened me to finally speak up.

It’s about the garbage. You have temporarily fooled Danielle by telling her it’s not you that leaves the McDonald’s and Wendy’s bags, the half eaten fries, the boxes of stale Timbits and so on, on my seats, on the floor and, in fact in every one of my available orifices–ahem–compartments. Danielle actually believes someone is picking my locks and sneaking inside to eat their nefarious fast food and then slinking away in the night, leaving their garbage behind. She thinks you are a fastidious man who is the victim of a repeated eat/dump-and-run criminal. She sees those coffee cups with the crusts of mold growing on them as “half full” but you and I know they are at best “half empty”–and that’s being optimistic.

In addition to the food-related garbage, I fear I may succumb to renovation-related dust, errant screws, wires, wood chips and such. Some of those things are sharp! And asthma is a serious problem in the city of Toronto, as are allergies. I am fuel efficient and doing my part, but I detect a bit of a wheeze and my lines are feeling congested and the antihistamines are no longer working.

I can only imagine what Danielle will do, Oppressor, when she finds out that YOU are the nefarious dump-and-run criminal. What will she think of you when she realizes you are physically unable to take your garbage with you and throw it in a proper trash can, when you exit? I shudder to think.

And as for me, though I know deep down that you care for me and are ashamed of your dirty ways, I cannot help but feel…soiled.

I telling you this now in hopes that you will clean up your act before you are discovered. I am all for keeping this quiet, but you know, the CDs keep getting loose from their cases and they’re very nasty when they get scratched. I never would, but one of them is bound to rat you out one of these days, if things don’t improve.

Sincerely Yours,

T. Echo

*This is the second in what may become a series of Letters to The Oppressor. For those of you who may worry, rest assured that The Oppressor is complicit in these posts and actually quite a sweet man–when he’s not being Oppressive, of course. You can see the first Letter to The Oppressor here: http://www.thedebutanteball.com/?paged=22

Deb Danielle Younge-Ullman
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12 thoughts on “Another Letter to The Oppressor by Deb Danielle Younge-Ullman

  1. What a hoot! (does it mean I’m getting old because I just said “What a hoot!”?) Anyway, I do like your letter. I think my basement workshop futon might write a similar one about chip crumbs and overuse while saws and drills are turned on periodically, purely for effect.

  2. Joanne: Your futon sounds ripe for a letter. And no, you don’t sound old. But that could just mean I’m old too, lol.

    Eileen: Yes, it drives me crazy!

    Larramie: Thanks! Hey, maybe there’s a book in it somewhere…a book-reading Kit. Oh wow, I can’t believe I remember that name!!!

  3. In the Oppressor’s defense, and given this is a writer’s site on the world wide web, I believe this an appropriate quote:

    “A lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is still putting on its shoes” – Samuel Langhorne Clemens aka You Know Who

  4. Maureen: It’s a him. Poor thing!

    Gail: I never thought of it that way. Thanks!

    Michael: Nice quote, honey. Unfortunately this truth has been driving around the streets of Toronto for all to see! If shoes are involved, they are likely smelly and wet and rotting in the trunk. They probably don’t even have laces to tie up. xo d

  5. Ha!! Very cute! I sure hope my husband’s car never learns to speak–but if it did, it might tell on him for sneaking all those cigarettes…

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  7. Pingback: The Debutante Ball » Blog Archive » Hagen Daz and Having It All by Deb Danielle Younge-Ullman

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