An open letter to Miguel Rivas.

Dear Miguel,

To my knowledge, we've never met, although I've come to feel as though I know you.

After all, I've had conversations with so many of your acquaintances. I know many of them are probably just your bill collectors who think I'm lying when I say I don't know you—they must think I'm your overprotective girlfriend or something—but still. I've even had (very confused on my end) text conversations with some of your buddies. (By the way, what WAS so awesome about that one time you and your buddies went to Midvale? I've gotten texts about that one at least four times. "Hey man remember MIDVALE? 4REAL!" If you could fill me in on that, that would be great. I like feeling included. Also, I was unaware that there was anything that exciting going on in Midvale, and my curiosity is piqued.) And the number of Spanish calls telling me that I—sorry, I mean YOU—may already have won $10,000 has really increased my level of cultural awareness and the amount of randomness in my life. So thank you, Miguel, for that.

But Miguel, I am disappointed in you. I know it's hard to hear, but a true friend tells you stuff like that.

Seriously (and I'm just basing this off the number of times she's called and the length of time that I've had this cell phone number), you need to call your grandmother more often. We're talking four years and she still thinks you're at my number.

Shame on you, Miguel. Shame on you.

Now go and call your abuela, stat.

Regards,

Your cell number successor (that would be me)


P.S. Oh, and pay your Comcast bill. They're getting a bit testy.