An open letter...

to the incredibly obnoxious woman who sat next to us at the movie last night,

You are a horrible person. Not like Hitler or Stalin awful. More like Paris Hilton, Lindsey Lohan, Paradise Hotel 2, awful.
I know I shouldn't judge. I should be a good progressive and try to figure out where you're coming from. There has to be a reason that a woman of your...impressive girth... looks at a pair of lycra leggings in Target and says, "Hell yes, I have to get a pair of those!"
Perhaps those leggings (which I'm pretty sure I heard weeping from the strain) cut off a huge part of the blood flow to your brain. Perhaps the part of your brain that is responsible for making good parenting decisions simply shut down to allow you to do things like walk, talk, feed yourself, and not soil yourself in mixed company.
Making fun of you is almost like making fun of the stupidest puppy in the litter. You know it's wrong to laugh, but there's something about the way the stupid little puppy periodically falls over on its side and seizes that is terribly, terribly giggle-worthy.
Seriously, though. What in the name of all that is holy (what is it that you worship, anyway, NASCAR perhaps? Nachos?) made you think that an R-rated horror movie was a good place for your two children? How old was the biggest one? Three? Maybe? Jesus wept, woman. Was Horton Hears a Who sold out, or are you just that goddamned selfish?
I have never believed that it does children any good to shield them from the pain and disappointment that comes from living in the everyday world. When a kid's goldfish dies, don't run out and buy a new fish, just to shield that child from pain. But really. What child needs to watch a woman cutting a flesh-eating vine out of her body and then, in a psychotic fit, stab her boyfriend in the chest? Fuck, woman! I had nightmares and I've seen damn near every slasher movie ever made.
Here's what I don't get. There was a time in my life, not so very long ago, actually, when I would have given anything. ANYTHING. to have a child of my own. Every day without a baby in my arms was an open wound on my heart. I couldn't watch movies with babies in them without crying. I would hold my infant niece in my arms, close my eyes and pretend with my whole soul that she was mine.
Apparently, it was a phase. A phase brought on by the intense loneliness caused by a bad relationship. You can throw whatever psychoanalytic bullshit at that you want. Still, the memory of that feeling is as fresh as if it were yesterday.
You have that. Two, really beautiful, little children. Be aware. Love them. And stop being a fucking idiot.
And don't talk during the movie. It pisses me off.