Note to girl on Stairmaster, yesterday morning: I haven’t seen you in months. But yesterday, as always, I watched you enter your weight into the monitor/panel thing. Let me just tell you that 103 doesn’t look as good on you as 110 did. And, no, I’m not saying this out of jealousy.

Note to woman on subway, yesterday afternoon: Just because you put a tissue over your finger before penetrating your nostril with it doesn’t mean that it’s OK to pick your nose. It doesn’t make it right. You’re still picking your nose, and you’re doing it in public, and it’s not acceptable. And here you looked like such a nice, regular person, which is a rarity anywhere, especially on the subway, so you really disappointed me. And no, I’m not being picky. You should know better.

Note to quite a few chicks at Hudson Hotel, last night: You had to go and wear hipper pants and pointier-toed shoes than I did, didn’t you … and you had to have had your hair freshly highlighted and professionally blown-out just moments before entering the bar area, too, didn’t you … and you had to be carrying an adorable little evening bag, didn’t you? Didn’t you!!! It was all part of an elaborate plan, wasn’t it, to make me feel less than spectacular, in my pedestrian black pants, T-shirt, squarish-toed boots (yes, boots … you even had to show off by wearing summery mules, damn you!), and windblown hair that hasn’t seen highlights since September! When I saw your sleeve-free triceps, however, I did whisper a triumphant little singsong “Nah nah nah nah naaaahh nah” under my breath.

Note to Téa Leoni-esque babe at Hudson Hotel last night, in the most perfect jeans ever, great belt, just tight-enough white shirt, flawless-fitting denim jacket, with good-looking dark-haired guy: I hate you. I couldn’t find anything wrong with you. But then again, I didn’t see your shoes. Was there a reason? Please tell me you were wearing sneakers (and not the cool fashionable kind) so I can go about my daily life. Thank you.