Dear Male Crotch Cricket Who Lives Down the Street:
I'm sure your parents think you're adorable. I'll bet your grandparents think you're the cutest thing EVER. I, however, think you're an annoying rug-ape, and you're not doing anything to endear yourself to me. Little Robbie of "pretty gatos" fame is cute. You are not.
I eagerly await winter's first snow, not because I'm particularly fond of snow, but because it means that you will not be able to ride your Big Wheel up and down the sidewalk anymore. It's not even that I think you shouldn't be allowed to ride your Big Wheel on the sidewalk. I accept that this is New York and I therefore have neighbors in close proximity. Neighbors who do stupid things like let their four-year-old bratlet ride his hard-plastic-tired Big Wheel up and down the sidewalk with no adult supervision. There are lots of little pockets of "safe neighborhoods" here in this city, and this is apparently one of them, because there are more screaming kids on this block than I've ever seen. And I've lived in Suburbia before, so that says a lot.
No, it's not the fact that you ride a Big Wheel that makes roaring plastic-on-grit sound all day. It's not the fact that you're a screaming brat who seems to spend eighty percent of his time wailing in that fake "Moooooomy! Billy's TOUCHING ME!" manner (okay, actually, that's a big part of why I don't like you) .
The real reason that I don't like you, however, is this: as sidewalks go, the one on this street is fairly wide. There's plenty of space when you're tearing down the street on that garish monstrosity of a pre-bike for you to NOT run over pedestrians. If I have to dive into a tree one more time because you refuse to steer that Big Wheel of yours so that it doesn't hit me in the shins when all I'm trying to do is get the fuck away from you, I am going to grab the handlebars on that little piece of shit, tip you off of it and then run like hell, taking your Big Wheel with me. I will throw it into the first dumpster I can find. And then I will come back and smile in your whiny little face. Please don't make me do this, Male Crotch Cricket. I really don't want to start a fight with your overindulgent yuppie parents. I want to be the quiet lady who lives down the block and doesn't bother anybody. But really, you're trying my patience, and I have precious little of it to begin with.
That is all.