Dear Mobile Phone Menace,

I quite enjoy the zombie commute. The early morning ride to work where silence is golden and interacting with other humans is not required. It is a cherished time when I can stare at other commuters and silently judge their haircuts, poo-poo their choice of shoes and guess that their marriages will last about as many years as the number of karats in the ridiculous rocks on their fingers.

So, you see, when you break that silence, it had better be for a good reason. And talking in full volume on your cell phone is not.

Today, I was forced to listen to every detail of the interview you conducted in your office yesterday. The candidate was extremely qualified, judging by the salary that you publicly broadcast. Your only concern was that you should not be the person to whom he reports.

Funny, I had the same thought.

I don't know why it amazed me, but it did. You were SO LOUD. Everyone on the bus watched you as you spoke. You looked directly at all of us several times, as if you were pleased to have everyone's attention. Perhaps it was my fault that you continued on in such a fashion. I was most definitely smiling at the whole spectacle. I guess you didn't realize that it was more of an American Psycho smile – the kind that comes from plotting a brutal murder.

Oh, I realize you're not the only one of your kind out there. Just a few of the topics I've been exposed to over the years, against my will:

• The not-so-confidential particulars of a real estate deal a woman was putting together. This includes all of the home's attributes, including one very large window I was hoping she'd jump from.

• The exact intersection where one girl was meeting her friend in an hour. No, not the northeast corner...the southeast. Not in front of Duane Reade, but outside of Staples. Next to the place with the guy with the dog with the limp. Just this side of I DON'T CARE.

• All the ways one guy was getting the shaft at work. Man, was he on a roll. I named him Complainy Smurf to keep from bludgeoning him with my gym bag. Luckily, a sweet, elderly woman came to my rescue and shouted "What, so 50 other people have to hear your private phone call???" I named her Supergram. 

The point is, if you're going to continue being rude, the rest of us will continue giving you the stink-eye. (Or my equivalent – writing Loathe Letters.) We've all had to endure people like you since the dawn of the mobile phone. From that passer-by who's phone call we catch just a few words of ("Everyone gets rashes. I'm sure it's nothing.") to you – the chick so engulfed in your "private" conversation that, 20 minutes into it, you sprinted to the front of the bus because you thought you missed your stop. And that just made you look silly.

OK, now I'm smiling again.

Call me,
Long-time listener, first-time loather