Open letter to a certain Latina in my feed

You know who you are

We first met when I was writing, “Jew” under a post of yours despite the fact that you are obviously the mixed descendant of Spanish colonists and Aztecs alike, neither group having ever produced a single Woody Allen or Alan Dershowitz for which anyone could admire or even hate. After taking my first shot, I remember both telling you to get an abortion and that no one would ever have sex with you. A week later, I said your mother should have gotten one immediately after declaring that it should be illegal in all fifty states plus Canada. And even though none of it makes sense, each time I fired away, you just went about your day playing hard to get.

In the same sense that there is a probably young, quasi-Native Disney princess underneath all those layers of stretchy fabric and adipose tissue you hold, underneath all the layers of irony, pithy commentary, and tragic affect that constitute my “dark triad,” there’s a real person itching to show himself here. The thing is I hate success, which is why I hate myself so much but love harassing you. Despite the fact that many want to make fun of me for being an underemployed guy with a high BMI who no one likes, you win because you are a highly-paid underemployed person with a much higher BMI who no one likes.

To call it mere jealousy would be a mistake not because I’m so sweet but just because I’m atypical. The truth is I’m not like those other anons: I’m a sensitive young man.

In fact, sometimes when I’m calling you “bitch” or “tubby” for hosting a Zoom call about the problems my demographic faces (stagnant wages, unemployment, addiction, depression, suicide), I’m imagining ripples of cellulite consuming me from my nasolabial folds all the way down to the place where my twin-sized Murphy bed graces the floor, as Apocalypto people play accordion and pan flute during a jungle-communist uprising. When I insult your hereditary line for being illiterates who thought the other half of your bloodline were gods, I imagine giving you backshots while you drink snickerdoodle cookie dough out of Mexican-flag Stanley tumbler with a Planned Parenthood sticker stuck to it, both of us knowing you will still be dehydrated and you could never survive pregnancy.

That one time I said I hope Jim Cramer bets on your systolic blood pressure going up, I almost T-boned a senior as I crested over the median and off to a Checkers parking lot. I had to pull my Civic over just to relieve myself and The Boomers have lived long enough.

After years of using the Progressive stack to gain credit for being fat, a woman, and Latina, you duplicitously treat men like a vote bloc while accusing them of playing identity politics and get mad at them when they notice you are a fat Latina, which does nothing other than make me incredibly horny for you.

But now is when I flip the script and ask you to imagine. See me jumping off of an Olympic diving board, doing a triple gainer past the dungeness double doors of your labia and into the treasure trove your FUPA holds. Later that night, I drip sweat off my bald head and onto your face as you produce little snortles, so excited by my perfect sex that you inhale and exhale all at once, losing yourself in a cardiorespiratory fugue state. The true definition of dialectics.

To that special prechonkabetic Latina in my feed, you know who you are but now you know who I am. They call me Ancient Problemz.