Everyone's favorite Stranger column is coming back, baby! Starting later this October, The Stranger will publish your rants, your raves, your secrets and confessions longing to breathe free every Wednesday, complete with original illustrations from cartoonist Steven Weissman. Tell us about your obnoxious customers who refuse to wear masks, your unfortunate encounters with your landlord, your MAGA relatives in Florida, your loud neighbors, your irresponsible fellow drivers.
Dish about your nasty ex, your horrible boss, your friends, your enemies, your frenemies. Or, tell us tales about helpful strangers, kind-hearted gestures that redeem our faith in humanity, or new love and friendship blooming in unexpected places. Clandestine affairs, silent crushes, random luck, mysterious coincidences, missed connections, angry feuds, bitter regrets. Or just anything you find yourself compelled to sit down and write an email about.
We swear it’s therapeutic. And the best part is, nobody will ever have to know who you are!
Send to: email@example.com. Please remember to change the names of the innocent and guilty.
Need some inspo? Then keep scrolling!
At the salon, my nails are slowly drying. You are sitting next to me, and your 3-year-old daughter is sitting two chairs away. This tells me you're a "hands off" parent, who prefers to use words that don't mean shit to a tiny person. She's playing with your cell phone. Suddenly, you begin a series of loud, empty attempts to parent from your chair as the tech is sanding off last month's manicure. Your rant includes threatening not to bring her to the salon again if she doesn't sit still, to stop playing with the phone that YOU put in her hands, basically telling her to stop being a 3-year-old. She's ignoring you. Eventually, she says, without looking up, "Mommy, stop yelling at me!" Yes, shut the fuck up! Some advice: Next time, get a babysitter. We know you can afford it if you can pay someone to paint your 3-year-old's toenails. Oh, and please don't have any more kids, 'cause you suck at it. —Anonymous
A few times a week, you set up beneath the overpass at South Jackson Street and Eighth Avenue, playing your saxophone by one of the giant painted pillars. You aren’t busking for your next dollar—there’s not a tip basket or open case to be found. And I presume, based on how you always stand at a certain angle, facing away from the street and passers-by, that you’ve chosen this particular spot for its excellent acoustics. The perfect echo of notes that comes spilling from your horn, no real songs but lovely ambient sound, breezes into my nearby window and always makes me smile. I will miss hearing your saxy serenades when I move away next month, and I hope that whoever ends up in this apartment after me gets as much enjoyment from your sax as I have. —Anonymous
You were driving a dark-colored Chevy Tahoe. Due to your self-aggrandizing selection of vehicle, I should have guessed you are an entitled douchebag. I watched you throw McDonald's food wrappers and bags out of your window like the world is your personal dumping ground. I honked and tried to catch up to you, but you cut off traffic as you turned onto First Avenue Northeast, and I was already late for work. If only I could have caught those wrappers and returned your property to you. I tried to call the Littering Hotline, but it's no longer active because America is now Great Again. You suck. — Anonymous