Dear License Plate RJL-028,
You're probably a very nice guy. I caught a glimpse of you back on the bridge in your rear-view mirror when you leaned over to kiss your girlfriend, which isn't a safe thing to do while driving as one is at risk of getting distracted, and the back of your blonde head didn't seem too unattractive. She probably thinks you're a wonderful person. Your friends probably like you. Your weed-dealer probably does, too.
You helped your girlfriend carry her bags into the building. You got the door for her. You even paused as she rearranged her hairpins and fixed her circle scarf. Your mother probably tells her friends how lucky she is and I'll bet she smiles to herself as she folds your laundry and makes your bed for you. Maybe that's it. You never straightened your own bedsheets. That's why you can't align a car in a godforsaken parking space. I believe I understand your family's history now.
In the beginning primordial days before time when the sun rose in the west, when I played sports, and when Queen Elizabeth was only seventy, there were no parking spaces. Cats and dogs slept together, silicon microchips were used as eating utensils, people parked their cars wherever they liked. Since then, however, aliens have arrived and taught humanity, among other things, how to build pyramids and paint white lines in car lots.
Your father's father's father's (repeat ad nauseum) father must have been entertaining himself by practicing his dives into the local mudpit when our extra-terrestrial mentors sent that message down the line. When he drove to the gladiator tournament that evening, I wonder if anyone glared at him as he, just like you, took up three spaces with his chariot. Was his tunic wrinkled? Or did his mother take care of that?
I'm sure she did. And ever since, the men in your family have married into women of another family who have preserved their ineffiecieny. All this cross-breeding accounts for the strangeness in your jawline and your square-shaped head, which I can just see as you disappear behind the Athletic center doors.
Come to think of it, your girlfriend looks like you. She's just brunette.
With all due respect,
Which isn't very much,
-Caleb McCauleigh
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