An Open Letter to Phoebe Buffay:
Dear Princess Consuella Bananahammock
You once attempted to steal over Chandler’s thunder, in his bid to be the King of Worst Thanksgivings by recounting your misfortunes, but pretty much got overshadowed by the malady of errors in Chandler’s childhood. Not that, your childhood was less dramatic. Learning French with three men behind a dumpster, Mugging Ross when you were 14 of his career defeaning magazine ‘Science Boy’, having a mother who died to Carbon-Monoxide poisoning, having stabbed a cop and justifying it by saying that he had stabbed you first, marrying a gay Canadian ice dancer to get him a green card and probably being the only vegan in the group, you’ve got pretty serious stuff on a platter, that is unseemingly full.
You’ve always been a kooky, flaky odd-ball proudly living in your own world, a world that we all innately want to be privy of, but are secretly bounded by “societal restraints”. Your third-wave hippie nature has all of us swoon heads over heels, over your swanky outfits that range from maternity pants to shop-lift water lemons to running wildly and freely. Run, Phoebe, Run (Get the Forrest Gump, reference…). Your love for new-age spiritualism and swirling eccentricity casts a spell of childish delight. We would happily name our children on you. Phoebe, if it’s a girl and Phoebo, if it’s a boy (regardless of the saner societal constrictions).
Yes, sometimes they don’t know that we know they know we know. You probably gave us, the dejected lovers, a line to cry our hearts out. “Your love is like a giant pigeon, crapping on my heart” we cry in unison. Like you, we are also stuck with no “pla”. Know that your sayings are literal translations of tinder profile biographies, because of their flirtatious, yet, oddly discomforting sentiment. We’ll probably be Okay with them, once we dig deeper. You’ll be quite happy to know that kids emulate you while trying to convey their name to others. You got it right, “P as in Phoebe, H as in Hoebe, O as in Oebe, E as in Ebe, B as in Bebe, and E as in…’ello there, mate!” You may not accept it, but you’re one of the reasons Monandler took place. The Chan-Chan Man just can’t handle your thunder, which is just as well, since he was in love with Monica anyway. Not just doin’ it. We all are probably waiting for a day, when in midst of a ‘Taylor Swift’ song, you mysteriously prop up and tell her, “Step Aside Sweetie! For the LOVE OF GOD, step aside” and take over the song with ‘Smelllly Cat, Smelly cat, what are they feeding you?’ Your terminology of ‘Lobsters’ has pretty much become the most beautiful proposal line to date, though.
When it comes to selflessness, I don’t recall anyone in my life ready to get pregnant with someone else’s babies so that they could experience parenthood. That look on your face, when you told all the beautiful babies how you loved them, and were ready to give them up was enough to fill a bucket full of tears and even cry more. If Monica was a mother without a baby, you were a mother too, who had babies but couldn’t have them. We hope Mike ‘Crapbag’ Hannigan isn’t giving you much trouble. If he is, you always have your wisdomous partner, Tribbiani to mend him for you.
Yes, you may play the fool at times, but you definitely are more than a pretty blonde girl, with an ass that won’t quit. You go, girl!