A Strongly Worded Letter to One Dollar Donations

Dear not so dear 1 dollar donations,

For some people, spiritual cleansing involves going to church, temple, or the acupuncturist. Betches find holy solace when we go out for iced coffee. The sound of my very own name being called by the barista “betch, your trenta 2 splenda skim iced coffee is ready” rivals the calming effect of my mid-afternoon Xanax. I never thought that feeling could ever be spoiled until I encountered you, the one dollar donation. How dare you force my sacred barista to ask me a question that will trap me in angst for the next 35 seconds.

You’re everywhere. You are the worst not-bad thing to ever happen to me. You stare at me on the back of the register at Bloomingdales, you’re outside the grocery store ringing a bell in my face, you even take the form of an African baby set to the hums of Sarah McLachlan during 4am commercial breaks. Why do you need my help? You're already in the arms of an angel. 

We know you’re just a dollar. A marijuana colored, coke-infested piece of government paper. Which makes you both convenient and therefore even worse than you appear at face value, both literally and figuratively. Why would you use a picture of a raggedy mutt with two and a half legs to squeeze four quarters out of me? Why couldn’t you have used three baby labradoodles in a picnic basket licking each other’s faces? Why toy with my emotions like that on a Blackout Wednesday afternoon?

We wish you’d be less daunting on our conscience. Let me use you as a tax write-off. Let me put you on my resume. Make me feel better about the time I slept with my roommate’s ex-boyfriend. In what world does writing my name on a piece of heart shaped construction paper and posting it on the wall of a movie theater constitute a reward for my good deed?

I’m not saying that I hate you. Hate is a strong word reserved for things like Anne Hathaway and crocs. But I’m also not saying that I like you either. I’m saying I would sit in a room with you and be cordial, but I’d like, never text you to hang out. If I had a dollar for every one-dollar donation I’ve been asked to make, I’d have enough dollars to not remember what a one-dollar bill looked like. 




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