Dear Lady At the Movies,
It was tough to enjoy Little Fockers because of your disgust with fictional characters. I understand that in your mid-40's you may have experienced some things I never have, nor will. But your anger perpetuated further than that scene.
"Bitter Black woman" was traced around the half smile you tried to give as you walked away. "I only know my worth when a man tells it to me" was plastered and rooted in the blemishes on your skin like it was necessary, like it was lotion.
I wondered if you ever matched your current persona to your past hurts. I get it, he never called you back. You raised three children alone and they learned everything they know from you.
Your daughter only smiles after validation from young thugs with sagging pants. Her idea of romance is attention. She'd call a man her soul mate and when he wanted to leave, she'll chase him, trying to keep her soul.
And your sons, well, you raised them. So they treat women like you allowed men to treat you. Only touting their worth after physical match ups that left you satisfied. They introduce themselves as "Uncle." They'd know there is no need to stay because every time they come back, you let them back in.
And none of them would ever really enjoy a movie. Because your son's would never take a woman and if your daughter really wanted to, she'd go my herself.
With real love,
The girl who sat in front of you...
