Love & Hatemail

My behaviour was most unbecoming

2008-04-02T18:39:58Z

Dearest Edward,

I must admit that my heart begins to quake in recalling last evening. When I offered you a cup of tea, I meant it as a sincere gesture of friendship, and I firmly resolved to behave with the utmost decorum whilst you were in my quarters unchaperoned. However, when you loosened your cravat, I very nearly swooned. The gentle coo of the roosting pigeons, the humidity of the salty air, the relentless throb of the city traffic, your stately, well-proportioned frame – all conspired against my modesty! All thoughts of prudence were dashed. Pleasure was my master, and ere long, Pleasure bid me commit unspeakable acts.

I savor the memory of our passions. I have your assurances that we have done no wrong. But darling, I have one memory which causes me grief; though I tried to stifle any sound, I let forth a cry that may indeed have been audible to the downstairs neighbours.

Fear not, my sweet! I was not wounded; I merely lost my sense of propriety in the rapture of your gentlemanly ministrations. I fervently hope that you will not judge me too harshly and that I may remain close to your affections and in your highest esteem.

Most Sincerely Yours,

Elissa

He could be named Barack Houssein Mussolini Pinochet Obama for all I care

2008-03-24T21:02:35Z

Dear Deidre,

Thanks again for inviting me to the Hillary Clinton rally. I’d never been to anything like that before and it was definitely interesting. But as far as volunteering for her campaign with you, I’m going to have to say no. I just can’t support her candidacy.

She has always struck me as a disingenuous opportunist. While I had a lot of respect for her in the early days of Bill Clinton’s administration with her push for health care, it didn’t inspire a lot of confidence in her ability to unite people and get things done. On top of that, as we learned in Michael Moore’s Sicko, she was quite content to be bought off by the pharmaceutical companies to the tune of hundreds of thousands of dollars. People talk about Barack Obama’s inexperience as a liability, but to me the lack of senatorial experience seems like a relief from corrupt politics as usual. The less time you have in the senate the less time you’ve had to get your hands dirty. He bears himself like a statesman, and while I do admire Clinton’s quick wit and sharp tongue, I think that her style of leadership makes her a lot of enemies.

And if I had to boil it all down to one issue, that issue would be the Iraq war. Obama spoke out against the war from the very beginning. Clinton helped vote us into the mess we’re in now, and while I understand that she admits the error of her ways, it doesn’t change the fact that she was easily led. And I don’t know which is worse; being so hawkish that you don’t even blink at the thought of unilateral military invasion of a country that poses no proven risk to us and has made no hostile advances, or if you are so concerned with your popularity that you will vote against all common sense in favor of the murder of thousands, the destruction of a civilian society, and a price tag of billions of dollars.

Sorry. I can’t help but hold a grudge. I would vote for Clinton over McCain, but I hope it doesn’t come to that.

Best,

Darin

If I have to read another one of your "manuscripts" I will slit my wrists

2008-03-13T20:01:45Z

Dear Dad,

I’m sitting here with thirteen chapters of your new novel in front of me. This is the first free moment I’ve had to even think about this, and I am so sorry to disappoint you, but there’s no way that I can offer you the kind of feedback you’re looking for.

I have got to say, I envy you your retirement! And I think it’s great that you devote so much of your time to the creative projects you find so fulfilling. But the sad fact is, there is no way I have the kind of free time it would take to keep up with your output and give you the thoughtful response you deserve.

I wasn’t able to give you any feedback on the last book, and I feel terrible about it. I felt guilty for all those months when you were asking me and I just couldn’t make the time. The thought of going through that again is giving me real feelings of dread. I think that we would both be a lot happier if I was honest with you and with myself about what I am capable of doing, and if I wasn’t disappointing you all the time. I hate letting you down when you’re asking for help, but I think I could be a much better daughter to you if I wasn’t also trying to be your editor. I don’t call as much as I used to because I hate having to tell you that no, I still haven’t gotten to your manuscript.

I’m not saying that feedback isn’t important – as a writer myself I take feedback very seriously. I just think that you need to find people you can rely on to give your work time and attention, and I also think you should try asking people other than your kids. Let’s face it – you’re my dad and I love you, and I’m going to like what you write more because you’re my dad and I love you. You should be asking people who can be brutally honest with you and see things from an outside perspective.

I know that you really hate the idea of writing workshops, but you might want to reconsider. Not only could you get advice from other writers and guidance from the workshop leader, but looking at the work of other people can really help you see yours in a new light and teach you how to make things better.

Again, I’m sorry to let you down. I hope you can understand.

Love,

Cara

Your love is killing me

2007-12-14T15:24:10Z

Dear chocolate,

It’s over between us.

I know I’ve said it before, but this time I mean it. I went to the doctor last week and he confirmed my worst fear ― your love is killing me.

We’ve had some amazing times, chocolate. I remember my very first Kiss® at the age of four - even in those tender years, I knew you were the one for me. I think back on our school day trysts, deftly peeling back your wrapper, muffling the sound with my own heavy breathing. I remember hiding you in a drawer as I heard mother’s footsteps in the hall, my heart pounding with the fear of being caught, my blood boiling with the torment of delayed gratification.

How blissful it was when I left home! At last, I could be yours fully. I loved the soft, warm liquid of you in the mornings, I savored you on strawberries, adored you wrapped around peanut butter and caramel. I lived for those special nights when you adorned yourself in the richest ganache ― you looked too beautiful to eat . . . almost.

God! The way you used to look at me, with those gooey brown eyes! The things you used to make me do! Do you remember the night of my company Christmas party when I took out the entire chocolate fountain in my ecstasy? Oh, my love, I was a slave to you!

The doctor tells me my arteries are thick with you ― our torrid love affair is written all over my body. I blush that he knows our secret ― you are so much a part of me.

I’ve promised my loved ones that I will give you up, and I must! I must choose to live for their sakes. But what kind of a life will it be without you?

Please, chocolate, if you love me at all, you’ll leave me without a trace. No dramatic billboard goodbyes, no flirtations from office candy bowls. Leave me before it’s too late. I fear I don’t have the strength.

Love always,

Bridget

Go smurf yourself

2007-12-11T21:05:43Z

Dear Anthony Torrence,

I have been collecting Smurf memorabilia for a great many years, and believe me, I have an encyclopedic knowledge of the merchandise. I recently purchased Gargamel’s Castle for $225 on your online auction. You advertised a “rare” item in “mint” condition. Therefore, you might understand my dismay when I discovered that you had sent me a counterfeit item.

Inside an authentic box I found a shoddily made replica that bore a slight resemblance to the cover. Rather than the two Gargamel figurines you advertised – one stirring a potion, one sitting and planning dastardly schemes – I found one of Gargamel running from danger, and a Mickey Mouse figurine from The Sorcerer’s Apprentice. The Azrael figure looked as though it had melted in the casting process. And Gargamel’s spell book and stand? Nowhere to be found.

Needless to say, this isn’t very smurfy of you, and that is a smurfing lot of money. I am requesting a full refund, and if I do not hear from you in the reasonable period of five smurfs, I am going to come to your house, cut a smurf in your smurf, tear your smurf out with my bare smurfs, and smurf it as a bong.

Have a smurfy day!

Anne Thornton

You have wrestled your way into my heart

2007-12-07T21:28:35Z

CLASSIFIED DOCUMENT

To: Zach “The Denihilator” Thomas

From: Princess Zahara of Jordan

Zach, my love, how long has it been since the esteemed and prophetically named Heartland Wrestling Association brought you to Jordan and into my arms? I will never forget the night I saw you enter the ring at the royal palace and throw off your robe. I watched from the shadows as your muscles gleamed and you strutted about in your little red pants. Your opponent was no match for you as you flung him against the ropes like a lifeless sack of bulgur wheat, each time courageously shouting, “DENIED!” I felt my heart race as you finished him with a cradle pile driver, and I knew I could not rest until I had won the love of the Denihilator.

Dear one, I crave your passionate embrace, and I tremble remembering the way you called me your desert blossom. Where are you tonight? I trace my fingers over the strange, foreign words; Muncie, Saginaw, Kokomo. Is it beautiful where you are? Are you lying awake, fighting a concussion? Or are you dreaming of me?

No one can ever know of our love, or I fear I would lose everything. His majesty, my father is a difficult man. But my 20^th birthday approaches, and I have heard whispers that I am to have my own private jet. My darling, I will fly to you, far from my father’s spies, and we will walk hand in hand along the shores of your Lake Erie, your long, flowing locks glowing in the Middle Western sun.

A thousand kisses,

Zahara

An open letter to the patrons of Yates' Cigar Bar and Grill

2007-11-09T16:31:41Z

Ladies and Gentlemen,

I have just about fucking had it with you. I have been waitressing at Yates’ for the past six months, and before that I’ve worked everywhere from the dumpiest diner to the poshest bistro, but honestly, all y’all take the cake.

To the lady who asked that her table be moved from close to the door (“Too cold!”) to close to the kitchen, and then moved again to the middle of the dining room (“Too hot!”), this is not an episode of Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Take your estrogen already.

To the group of boisterous Italian tourists, who recently asked for your meat well-done, then kept asking me why it wasn’t ready yet because you were “in a rush,” then complained that the soup wasn’t piping hot and sent it back, then lingered at the table for about two and a half hours in the middle of the dinner rush: Nell’America, abbiamo qualcosa ha chiamato “tipping.” Loro dovrebbe tentarlo un giorno, buffoni grassi.

To the frat boys who “sampled” several bottles of wine, sending each one back in disdain, I heard your ladyfriends talking in the bathroom, and surprise! They realize you’re douchebags. Also, I don’t know which one of you is named Yale, but apparently you have a very small penis and have “no idea how to pleasure a woman.”

And finally, to the gentleman on Friday who ordered the foie gras and then sent it back when you realized what it was, I hope you enjoyed your burger! I know, you’re probably thinking I spat in it or something like that. I would never do that. I just handed it to our dishwasher, Big Yuri. I don’t even want to know what he did with it.

Yours sincerely,

Yazbeth Tompkins

Please don't make us see you naked

2007-11-05T20:25:41Z

Dear Wendy,

You know that your mother and I love you and we’re very proud that you were cast in a production of Hair: The Tribal Love Rock Musical. We’ve really enjoyed coming to your shows in the past, and we’re sure you’re gonna knock ‘em dead. But please, don’t make us come see you naked.

I know, we brought you into this world, and it’s not like it’s anything we haven’t seen before. It does strike me as ironic that from the age of six, if anyone walked in on you changing, they were met with piercing screams. But I suppose that’s neither here nor there. It’s just one of the many ironies of parenting - you suffer while your child is self-conscious and inhibited, and then you suffer when she grows up and becomes a community theater exhibitionist.

The truth is, we’re not big fans of nudity in theater in general. At best it’s unsettling, at worst it’s grotesque. We know you said that the production would be “tasteful” and “artfully done,” but it’s hard for you to judge when you’re up there showing it off, and we’re down in the audience shifting uncomfortably.

For argument’s sake, though, let’s assume that the lighting and choreography really do make a beautiful tableau. Then we have the supreme discomfort of knowing that everyone else is looking at our daughter, and thinking things that we’d rather not think about when it comes to you.

Your mother is insisting we go, which means that we likely will. And trust me, honey, we’ll be cheering for you all the way through – despite the fact that I have never understood how people buy into the idea that a bunch of characters will spontaneously burst into song and choreographed dance moves in order to advance a plot. Don’t worry, we’ll have fun. We’ll just be praying for a major power outage during the nude scene.

Love,

Dad

PS Your mother and I just got cast in an all-nude review of CATS – now we’re even. HAH! I kid.

An open letter to the inhabitants of Route 9

2007-11-02T15:52:02Z

Dear Sirs,

It has been my privilege getting to know you each morning as I walk to work. You have so very many important jobs to do – removing garbage, constructing buildings, driving in souped-up cars, leaving the halfway house for the day – and you all have something to say to me.

I’m sure it will please you to know that I am quite satisfied with my anatomy, so there is no more need for you to try to boost my self-confidence by complimenting my “rack” or my “ass”, which, while admittedly well-proportioned, is not trying to be the center of your attention.

In addition, I would like to note that while my boyfriend is a slim, erudite, and well-dressed vegan, he is not actually a “faggot” or an “ass-monkey.” Really! You’re just going to have to take my word for it. I know him a lot better than you do, and trust me, he loves the ladies, if you know what I mean.

Also, as flattering as it is to hear that you would like me to “suck it,” “take it all off,” or “marry” you, in addition to my current boyfriend, I have a long list of potential suitors, close male friends, and attractive acquaintances who I did not meet at the side of the road. I urge you not to wait for me, as the list of people I would sooner date than you grows exponentially, and you clearly have needs I alone am unable to fulfill.

A number of you have taken to calling me “snow bunny,” which I admit was a new one on me. I looked it up in urbandictionary.com. There are several accepted definitions, and I struggle to choose the one that could possibly apply to me. I am going to assume that you have not mistaken me for a “poser snowboard girl,” as our encounters take place about 100 miles from the nearest slopes. Perhaps you were announcing that I am a “stuck-up, preppy white girl” – I could accept that definition if it wasn’t said in such a lecherous and hopeful tone. If you were insinuating that I am a “female who loves to have sex for free cocaine,” then I must inform you that you are gravely mistaken. The only reasonable assumption I can make is that by “snow bunny” you meant “the white girlfriend in an interracial couple.” Sirs, I appreciate your ardor, but I wouldn’t sleep with someone who catcalled me at the side of the road if the world was about to end and we were the only ones stuck behind a police barricade.

Yours sincerely,

Victoria Becker

I'm very disappointed in you, Ben Stiller

2007-10-31T15:10:37Z

Dear Ben Stiller,

I write to you today as a long-time fan. I fondly remember the early nineties when I was turning my friends on to the Ben Stiller show. I had picked up on you years before that during your Saturday Night Live stint, and your show confirmed my feeling that I was watching a fine young talent emerge.

You were the guy everyone loved to hate in Reality Bites, but I knew you were just showing off your range. I was happy for you when you popped up in cameos over the next few years, and when you got another big break in The Cable Guy. I admit it – I became invested in watching your career blossom.

There’s Something About Mary? Classic. Permanent Midnight? Dark and riveting. Meet the Parents? Forgivable, especially when you redeemed yourself with The Royal Tenenbaums.

I believed that you had great things in store for you. I spent a lot of time defending Zoolander to your many detractors. Which may be why I feel so completely burned by you now.

Mr. Stiller, you were not put on this earth to play a romantic lead. Meet the Parents worked because your character was utterly contemptible, and you didn’t get in the way of DeNiro’s swan song, which is a letter for another time. Much like There’s Something About Mary, people were not sitting through your movie in the hopes that true love would triumph in the end; we just wanted to see what new and hilarious disasters would befall you.

I’m afraid that Meet the Parents encouraged your worst instincts and gave us the career we see before us. I thought you were destined for greatness; A Duplex, a Focking sequel, and a Heartbreak Kid later, and I can hardly remember what I saw in you. Not to mention the 2004 Razzies where you had the dubious honor of being nominated for worst actor FIVE times. Sometimes you were just the weak link in an otherwise fine film. But I sat through Along Came Polly that year, and if that was supposed to be a comedy, I’m going to file a class action suit for false advertising.

Please, Ben Stiller. I hear from my nieces that the kids movies you’ve been doing are entertaining, but you’re only 42. It’s too soon to relegate yourself to a G rating – which is exactly what will happen if we have to watch you worm you way into the heart of another beautiful woman. Go back to your roots, sir, and for fuck’s sake, do something challenging.

Yours sincerely,

Upton Tuzzi

Send her to the carnival in the sky

2007-10-17T15:54:38Z

Dear Mr. Bonaparte,

It has been my privilege working with Napoleon’s Flying Circus for the past year and a half. I believe that my hard work, tiny dimensions and freakish flexibility have made me an asset to the troop. I have made many strong friendships with my fellow contortionists, and I would be sorry to leave. However, my working relationship with The Amazing Tatiana is intolerable.

Tatiana has been working with you for a long time, quite possibly before I was even born. And I hate to break it to you, but it shows.

We all know that back in the day she was at the top of her field. Trust me, she never tires of telling us. But those days are over, and yet she insists on keeping the best tricks for herself. The girls and I have been trying to cover for her, but the other day in the group contortion act when her arms gave out at the top of the pyramid, she almost put Tara in the hospital. She is still jumping through the hoop of fire, even though they don’t make flame-retardant unitards in her size anymore.

The worst was last Saturday after the big cookout. She wouldn’t think of skipping the barrel contortion act – which was a gross miscalculation, because she got wedged in there so tight, it took two elephant trainers and three pounds of melted butter to slide her out.

Mr. Bonaparte, I was born to squeeze myself into that barrel. My entire career has been building up to this point. Give me that chance and you won’t be sorry.

I know you encourage us girls to sort things out on our own, and that the occasional catfight boosts ticket sales. But in the interest of professionalism, and in fear of what has been described to me as “Tatiana’s bloodthirsty shiv” I am begging you to intervene before it’s too late.

Yours sincerely,

Tasha the Invincible

In which a girl explains to her ex that he has incurable mental problems

2007-10-09T18:03:20Z

Dear Sam,

I admit it – when you first left me I was devastated. You turned on me without warning and rolled down your steel shutters. You locked me out in the cold and left me to wonder where in the world we went wrong, and how it could possibly warrant such sudden and drastic measures. It was a real mind fuck.

But since then, I’ve figured some things out. Your behavior was made possible by what I now recognize as a case of classic narcissism. It’s a brain disorder. And it’s incurable.

In case you’re unfamiliar with the term, here are the symptoms: An inability to empathize? Check. A willingness to take advantage of others, or a tendency to see others only in terms of what they can do for you? Oh, God yes. Feelings of excessive superiority, a preoccupation with wealth, and the constant need to be the center of attention? These qualities are apparent upon seconds of meeting you.

Here’s a less clinical way of describing the condition: Every narcissist walks around as the self-appointed emperor of a world reviving entirely around himself. He can’t comprehend the feelings of others, so his own feelings are the only ones he cares about. And why not? He believes he’s superior to everyone else, and therefore entitled to whatever he can get his hands on. The people around him are either obstacles to his will to power; tools he can use to get what he wants; or they are the poor souls who adore him unconditionally, grovel for his attention, and make sacrifices for his happiness – and these last have the dubious honor of making it into the inner sanctum; they are his long-suffering courtesans, his ass-kissing court, and his unfortunate servants.

It makes sense to me now why we lasted so long together. I’m a pathological self-sacrificer, and together we had the perfect ingredients for long-lasting co-dependence. I totally get why you never felt indebted to me for everything I did for you, and I realize that would never have changed. And I understand that you will never be capable of really loving anyone but yourself, and that when I let up on the groveling and asked you to meet my emotional needs for once, I stopped being useful to you and was coldly and cleanly banished without remorse.

But even knowing all that, true to form, I continued beating myself up over it for awhile, wondering what I could have done differently, wondering if you could have been helped by counseling. And then a friend of mine told me a story about her sister and brother-in-law. He’s been diagnosed with narcissism, and the two of them went to a husband-and-wife counseling team for some couples therapy. After a few sessions, the shrinks spoke to the wife alone and told her that they were going to write a book about how to live with a narcissistic spouse. But they STOPPED writing it, because they came to realize that NO ONE should stay married to a narcissist. I heard that story, and it felt like a huge weight had been lifted. You are the way you are and there is absolutely nothing that anyone can do about it.

I know that your worst fear is of dying alone with no one loving you. I don’t really see that happening; there are a lot of people out there who are willing to put others’ needs far above their own. But what I can promise you is that if you can’t learn to make sacrifices and consider your partner’s feelings, then you’ll die without ever having loved. And for that you have my sympathy.

Susan

In which a guy tells his ex-fiancee exactly what he thinks of her

2007-10-05T15:26:51Z

Reka,

I’ve debated writing you for a long time. I don’t see what good it can really do. I imagine that you’re happy in your new life, and I don’t wish you any ill. But at the same time, you seem oblivious to the pain you caused me, and I don’t think I’ll be able to have closure until I send you one last letter. I’m not looking to reconcile with you. In the past eight months I’ve thought about what I could have done differently, but I don’t know what, if anything, you’ve learned. So I hope that telling you my side of things will bring me some kind of peace, so that I can keep my memories of the good times without them tormenting me.

It’s not why you left me that hurt so much; it’s how. Yes, it was painful that you left me for Rob. But that’s forgivable. Ultimately, how could I judge you, when you left Ryan for me, so many years ago? It’s what you do. But what I can’t forgive is your dishonesty.

You agreed to marry me, but now I have trouble believing that you ever meant it. If you had told me you were having doubts about committing to me, we could have dealt with that, even if dealing might have meant splitting up. Instead, you started sneaking around with Rob. And as awful as it is that you were cheating on me for six months, it is horrifying to wonder how much longer it would have gone on if I hadn’t found that note. Would you have married me and kept him on the side? Was this even the first time you’d cheated? I thought I knew you, but you were never real with me. And thinking about all the good times we had while you were leading this double life makes me physically sick, even now.

What kills me is that you know the pain of being cheated on. I saw it in your face in the photo at your mother’s house, taken right after the divorce. You were looking at the camera as if to say, “Can’t you tell my heart is broken?” When I saw that, I made a promise that I would keep that little girl safe, make her feel loved and secure. I thought that we could grow and mature together and love each other as equals. But eight years later, I still felt you leaning on me like a father figure and it was difficult. I knew I was pushing you to be strong and independent, and when you resisted, it was really frustrating. I know I could have handled it better. But I wanted to believe that you could be your own person. Instead you left me for someone who, if you’re lucky, will coddle you for another eight years.

I know that you’re not going to want to hear this, but I am haunted by my memory of those conversations about your mother – how you were afraid of ending up like her, being abandoned by someone you loved and trusted. You were so afraid of becoming your mother, you became your father instead.

From our very first date, when we felt that instant connection, I always thought that if things didn’t work out, we would at least stay friends. I couldn’t imagine not having you in my life. And you know that I usually stay friends with my exes. But the reason that Rachel and I were able to remain such good friends is that we ended things without animosity. My leaving hurt her, but I never violated her trust or disrespected her. I was totally honest and I trusted her to handle it, and now we know we can rely on each other for anything. Reka, I still love you despite myself, and it breaks my heart that you and I will never have that kind of relationship. Even if I believed you were truly sorry, I would never be able to trust you. Lying comes too easily for you.

Please don’t respond to this. I need to move on. If this letter pissed you off, I’m sorry that dredging this up one last time was something I had to do. But even if you aren’t angry, I still don’t want to hear from you. You’re a master of diplomacy, we both know, and your final emails tore me up. You’re great at saying all the things you’re supposed to say when you leave someone you don’t hate, but they just struck me as pat clichés, cold, emotionless. You’ve said that you’re sorry, and that’s enough. The only response I’m looking for is silence.

Rishi

The bird can stay, but you gotsta go

2007-10-04T13:44:41Z

Dear Pixie,

Paul and Phil and I had a talk the other day and we have decided unanimously – you need to move out as soon as possible.

It’s true that you and Pete have been more respectful lately by getting high on the porch every night instead of in the living room, but since you are perpetually stoned, you haven’t been to the grocery store in at least a month, and in that time I haven’t had a jar of peanut butter or a carton of ice cream last more than thirty-five minutes in the house, and I gave up buying frozen pizzas about the time you moved in.

I’ve long suspected you of mooching off my toiletries, but I had no idea how bad it had gotten until I went away for 10 days. I measured everything by weight before I left, and now I am down by 10oz of shampoo, 25oz of conditioner, 3oz of moisturizing fluid, and about a pint of mouthwash. By my estimates, this means that in the past six months you’ve stolen about $300 worth of my shit.

Phil just about busted a gasket when he found out that you had used his entire stash of saffron to make body paint. But the final straw came when Paul found a toenail in your telltale shade of neon green at the bottom of his cereal bowl. How in God’s name it got there, I don’t know, but we cannot go on living like this.

I know this will be a difficult time for you, but we will do everything we can to make this a smooth and rapid transition. Have you and Pete thought about moving in together? I can help you pack, and the guys are totally willing to help you with the heavy lifting.

There is one other issue, and I know this might not be the best time to ask, but it has to do with Parcheesi – Pixie, we love your bird, and we want him to stay.

Ever since we noticed Parcheesi looking a little groggy and realized that you were out of birdseed – who knows for how long – the three of us have been taking up a collection to keep him in seed. And that time when he got sick, I was the one who read the bird books and fed him medicine out of a dropper. I love it when he flies around and lands on my head while I’m reading, and his happy little chirping makes my day. Honestly, we waited so many months to tell you to move out because we love the little guy so much.

Please think of what’s best for Parcheesi. You know that we’d take great care of him.

Sincerely,

Patty

In which a father takes a Major League Baseball player to task

2007-10-03T14:06:18Z

Dear Owen Jones,

Up until a month ago, you were my son’s favorite ball player.

We’ve been watching you for two solid years while you were playing for the Scrappers. My son’s first game was in 2005 when you hit the grand slam to win against the Renegades. We got you to sign Oliver’s glove, and since then he’s had your clippings on his wall, and whenever we have a catch, he plays in an old undershirt he wrote your numbers on. We went to as many of your home games as we could, and when we heard you’d moved on to the Indians, Oliver was so excited.

We don’t have a lot of money, and Cleveland is a pretty far piece from here. But for Oliver’s sixth birthday, I took him to see you play against the Mariners.

Mr. Jones, we waited an hour for you to come around and sign your rooky card for us. A bunch of the other players were signing, and we waited patiently; Oliver was really only there to see you.

When I waved and you walked right by us, muttering, and turned away without breaking your stride, it broke Ollie’s heart. On the car ride home, he kept trying to make excuses for why you’d be so rude, but there’s no good excuse. You’re a new player, Mr. Jones, and maybe you need to be reminded that you don’t stop being a ball player when you step off the field. You need to remember that it’s your fans who are at the heart of this game.

I’d really appreciate it if you could sign the enclosed card for my son. It would mean a whole lot to him. I know I could’ve just left it at that, but I wanted you to know how much your actions can hurt your fans, and I hope you take it to heart the next time you see a tired dad and his kid waiting just one more hour before the long ride home.

Sincerely,

Omar Navratti

In which a woman warns her ex-husband's new wife what she's in for

2007-09-30T17:33:45Z

Dear Noreen,

It’s taken me a long time to make my peace with you. At first it was simple to hate you – you were the other woman, you broke up a 10-year marriage, and for the past few years, my daughters have been raised with an absent father-figure. It’s not that I blamed you more than I blamed Neil. It’s just that my feelings for him were much more complex, and for a long time I couldn’t think of you as anything more than what you had done to me.

But as the years went by, you didn’t disappear, and I came to think of you differently. When my kids visited their father, I knew they were happy to see you, too. At times it was your logistical efforts that made it possible for them to see Neil at all. So begrudging as it was at first, I started to feel grateful that they had you in their lives.

I know that you’re not a terrible person. You fell in love with someone who wound up doing some pretty terrible things to his family. I’m glad I’ve never been in your situation, because I can’t say for sure what I would have done. And now for what it’s worth, I want to apologize for any hostility I might have shown you in the beginning. Because I can honestly tell you that at this point in my life, I feel real gratitude that the weight of that marriage was lifted. And I know you were the catalyst, so in a perverse way I’m grateful to you for setting me free to find real lasting happiness.

Now you are in a position I can relate to; you’re about to marry the man I once married. Noreen, I hope for your sake that you don’t go through what I went through. I wish I could say there were clear warning signs. When Neil and I were first together, he was romantic and adventurous, and he had big plans for the future. It wasn’t until we were married and financially intertwined that he became selfish and unreliable. I came to learn that he’s immune to feelings of guilt and responsibility, and I’m sorry to say that in my experience, it’s just his nature to take full advantage of any situation he’s in without regard for others.

The pessimist in me says to protect yourself, and be wary of him shifting back into those tendencies. But my hope for you is that he has matured since then, that his mistakes have taught him what it takes to have a functional marriage. And I sincerely hope that your strong qualities temper his bad ones and amplify the good.

I know that an ex-wife’s blessing must seem bittersweet, but I honestly wish you two all the best.

Sincerely,

Nova

There's something wrong with your monkey

2007-09-26T17:21:27Z

Dear Mariko Suzuki,

I regret to inform you that Marimbo Monkeypants, the spider monkey my wife and I rented from your business, was defective.

My daughter loves monkeys and we were thrilled to make her birthday wish come true. We read all of your literature, and when the trainer arrived, we had a platter of vegetables for the children at the party to feed Marimbo. However, the trainer appeared visibly stoned and after returning from a cigarette break, she began pelting Marimbo with donut holes. The trainer and the children thought this was hilarious. But Marimbo underwent a horrifying transformation.

At first my daughter was thrilled when he began swinging from the chandelier, but her love affair with monkeys ended when Marimbo began tearing open her presents and racing through the house emptying and stomping the contents of drawers and cabinets. The sounds of children wailing only enraged him further and he began flinging his feces at her young friends. At this point my wife and I were distracted between calming children and trying to contain the monkey.

The fact that during this chaos the trainer passed out in a barkalounger, I’m afraid can only be attributed to a massive substance abuse problem, or barring that, acute narcolepsy. During her impenetrable sleep, and before we could remove the children, Marimbo Monkeypants stripped her from the waist up and began to commit erotic acts that beggar description.

My wife and I were not planning to explain the facts of life for some time. Instead we were forced to interpret an act of reverse bestiality to half a kindergarten class on what should have been the happiest day of our daughter’s young life.

We are hoping that we will not have to resort to legal action, but our lawyer is encouraging us to seek a class action suit for ourselves and the traumatized families. We would be willing to settle out of court for damages and the cost of what will likely be years of therapy.

Sincerely,
Michael Martin

In which a woman joins Procrastinators Anonymous

2007-09-24T17:57:26Z

Dear Liz,

I am so sorry I haven’t written you back. I was grateful to get your Christmas card, and yes, now that Leo and I are retired, we would love to come out and visit you. When it hit me the other day that Christmas was, oh, nine months ago, and you’re still waiting to hear from me, I was mortified.

Unless you’re a true procrastinator like I am you won’t understand, but basically your card was displayed prominently until Easter with all the other Christmas cards, and I thought of you often. "Geez, I should really call Liz," I’d think, and then I’d do about forty-thousand other things, walk past your card, rinse, repeat. It must have been around Easter that I started to feel hugely guilty for not responding, so then when I thought things like, "oh, I just saw the greatest movie that Liz would totally get a kick out of,' I would just start berating myself for being such a lousy friend.

Now, logically, the best way to stop feeling guilty would be to stop torturing myself and just call you already, but somehow my pathology defies logic. I could have gone on digging this hole for myself indefinitely, but luckily, I had one of those moments of total hypocrisy where I was impatiently waiting for my daughter to return a phone call, and I thought of you, and here we are.

So, new season’s resolution - I will reply to letters as soon as I get them and stop missing out on great opportunities like snorkeling with you and Larry, which I would so have loved to have done. Maybe next year?

To recap: 1) Hi, my name is Lauren and I’m a recovering flake. 2) Leo and I will start looking at dates to come out for next summer right away, and if you don’t hear from me in a couple of weeks CALL ME. 3) If you haven’t seen The Bourne Ultimatum yet, you’ll love it - thought of you the whole time.

Love,
Lauren

In which a woman chooses her cat over her fiancee

2007-09-21T20:04:32Z

Dear Kristin,

You know I love you. And I hate that our relationship has come down to this ultimatum. But when I said Either the cat goes, or I go, I meant it.

Kristin, I hate Kierkegaard. He sheds constantly, and he hisses at me as soon as you leave the room – yesterday, he lunged at me from on top of the refrigerator so he could claw me at eye level. But I could get past that if it weren’t for the fact that I’m horribly allergic to him. It doesn’t matter what room I’m in; it feels like his dander is being smeared across my face. I pop allergy pills and it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference. That’s why we always stay at my place.

Look, I am dreading the look on your face when you read this. I know how absolutely insane and petty it sounds. But it’s not just about the cat. Kierkegaard is emblematic of all our problems. It just hit me all of a sudden as we sat there arguing about it. You’re saying you can’t imagine giving up this cat who has been with you all these years, and you think I’m a huge jerk for asking you to make that sacrifice. Meanwhile, I’m sitting there with my eyes itching, going through half a box of tissues, and it’s like my suffering doesn’t even register for you.

You say you can’t imagine living without the cat, but I’m saying to you now that I can’t imagine going through life with someone who would put her needs so far above her partner’s. And I suppose you think I’m just as guilty of that. So the conclusion I’m drawing is that maybe neither one of us is ready to make the compromises necessary to make a marriage work. Today it’s just a cat, but there are a thousand decisions we would have to make together about where we’d live, how we’d raise our kids, or how we’d spend our money, and how can I trust us to make good decisions when I am visibly suffering in front of you, and it’s still more important for you to get your way?

This is the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make, but it’s clear to me that it’s the only course of action. I’m dreading living without you, but I think that if we got married, in time we’d both come to regret it. I’m trying to spare us a lot of suffering in the long run. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you. I was blind to the things that would doom us because I loved you so much. But we were doomed, and I can see that now. It kills me to hurt you like this, but I hope that someday we’ll both be grateful for this clarity.

Love,

Kristopher

Your underwear ruined my life

2007-09-19T13:57:52Z

Dear Jean Bisniak,

I have been a customer of your lingerie line for many years. From the high-waisted full-coverage of the eighties to the micro-thong of the late nineties, to the low-rider boy-shorts of today, I’ve been with you all the way. I even had a pair of circa 1995 Rios – not a lot of people can say that! Over the years I’ve been highly satisfied with the quality of your product, and I’ve encouraged friends to support your store as well.

However, I recently had a tragic underwear malfunction which is changing my opinion of Bizniz Intimates. I don’t know if you were asleep at the wheel, or if you intentionally pimped out inferior undergarments to the public, but the fact remains: the elastic in that thong was woefully inadequate.

I am referring to model #867114R, which is a thong with a picture of George W. Bush making a monkey face, saying, “Give Me Your Banana.” My boyfriend purchased said thong from your store as a gag gift to me. In the box? Hilarious. In the bedroom? A little unnerving, perhaps, but still funny. On the floor of my place of employment? Disastrous.

I work as a waitress at a German restaurant. On Friday night, in the middle of happy hour, I was bustling over to my table, arms balancing a tray of massive steins, when I felt the faintest slip of fabric. Little did I know that I was facing a total elastic shutdown. Before I realized what was happening, George Bush was around my ankles, and I was lying bare-assed on the floor covered in ten pints of beer.

I don’t know if I lost my job because I refused to replace what turned out to be very expensive steins, or because I flashed the entire restaurant, or because my boss is now convinced that I’m a Republican, but the end result is the same. Your underwear ruined my life.

I am enclosing the thong in the hopes that you will give me proper compensation for the financial hardship and emotional anguish I have endured. If that “compensation” comes in the form of underwear, so be it. But please, no thongs. It’s too traumatic.

Yours sincerely,

Jen Kearney

If I had a dog, he would read Dickens

2007-09-18T16:43:47Z

So, Penn, you villain! We meet again!

I was enjoying a perfectly lovely day at the beach – lapping at the water, chasing the gulls, sniffing at abandoned picnics. I was the benevolent king of my domain, quite happy to survey the landscape, trotting out ahead of Iris, keeping a sharp lookout for unsavory characters.

Then you, obnoxious orb, came blazing into view. How I loathe your self-satisfied expression as you sail past me, never breaking a sweat. Then you alight and begin your maddening bouncing. How I despise your sodden fuzz and factory smell! I sink my teeth into your wretched hide, and shake you until I am certain you are dead. Hahah! You scoundrel! You have bounced your last!

I deliver you lovingly to my sweet Iris, who takes your furry corpse from me, scratching me behind the ears until I am quite delirious.

But you deceiver! you, my heart’s firing squad! you spring back to life, flinging yourself down the beach, taunting me with every move! Unconscionable rogue! Why won’t you die?

I vow not to rest until the last breath has been squeezed out of you. And on your funeral day, at the height of solemnity, I will raise my hind leg and anoint your coffin, so that your sniveling family will know that I indeed am a force to be reckoned with.

Until that day I remain your nemesis,

Indigo

Madam, LARPing is for fools

2007-09-14T13:42:02Z

Dear Healey,

In response to your question, yes, I am aware that there is a documentary coming out about people who play Live Action Role Playing games in the Baltimore area, and no, I am not starring in it. There are many reasons I would not be cast in a LARPing documentary, the greatest of which is: I am NOT a LARPer.

How many times must I explain to you that all gamers are not created equal?? There is a rigid hierarchy to geekdom, which might come as a surprise to the uninitiated. Allow me to illuminate you.

In laymen’s terms, say you have a pro-baseball player. He is literally at the top of his game. Beneath him, you have your average, regular baseball fans. Beneath these fans you have the fans who won’t miss a game and will paint their faces and riot in the bleachers. Beneath these fans you have the fans who can recite every major league statistic of the past thirty years with frightening accuracy. Beneath these fans you have fans whose baseball card collections are worth more than their cars. And on the bottom you have fans who can’t achieve orgasm unless it is into a baseball glove to the sound of John Sterling calling a winning game.

The geek hierarchy is much the same. For a comprehensive understanding, I refer you to the following chart: http://www.brunching.com/images/geekchart.pdf.

In short, published science fiction authors are at the top, role-playing gamers like myself are in the middle, and distinctly beneath us are the LARPers, the laughingstock of the gaming world. Because, for example, some LARPers will go to the trouble of constructing the “unspeakable cosmic horrors” of H.P. Lovecraft and costuming themselves as gruesome creatures from other dimensions, but they couldn’t get an audience to come if they paid them. And that’s just sad.

It’s true that they are above Furries, but seriously, who isn’t? (What are Furries, you ask? They are fans of anthropomorphized animals in all forms, who often adopt fursonas (I shit you not) on their internet role playing games, who may take an interest in watching or taking part in porn involving people dressed in furry costumes, and who may or may not be afflicted with plushophilia, which is sexual attraction to stuffed toys or theme park characters. But I digress.)

I freely admit that from time to time my friends and I will get together around a table on a Friday night, drink some beers, and play games in which we act out different Star Wars personas. Once in awhile, I even enjoy the guilty pleasure of poring over the hundreds of painstakingly painted miniature pewter figurines on a Warhammer game board. However, this is a far cry from the weekend of an historical LARPer, who might be found in a park near you, dressed like a medieval sea captain and whacking the crap out of his fellow LARPers with a Nerf bat.

Role-playing gamers have girlfriends, sing in rock bands, run Fortune-500 companies, and are popular guests at cocktail parties. Live Action Role Players can’t get a date outside of the LARPing community, live in their parents’ basements which are often tricked out like gothic dungeons, and blow all of their savings on collecting replicas of fictional fantasy swords and hitting on the beer wenches at Renaissance Faires. While I believe that your lumping us into the same category was the mark of ignorance rather than malice, it was still deeply insulting.

In conclusion, there are role-playing gamers like myself, who pursue their hobbies in a dignified and jovial manner, and then there are Med-Festering lametards who wander the countryside with foam pole-arms, pretend-fighting each other. I trust that you will not make the same mistake again.

All best,

Hugh

Apologies

2007-09-13T12:01:12Z

Well, it turns out that Geoff had some pretty unseemly things to say to Gwen. Sorry, this next entry is friends only and for a limited time.

The self-actualized bully

2007-09-12T13:39:34Z

Dear Finn,

I know this may come as a total shock to you, but I’m really sorry for beating you up the other day. That was way out of line.

I mean, yeah, usually we just give you a rip-down in the locker room and laugh at you, or throw crap at you in the cafeteria, and I’m sure you’re used to Frankie doing his little mincing walk impression of you, but y’know, we’re just messing with you because we like you.

I mean, I really do like you. I don’t know how to say this, but I kind of like like you. I don’t know when it started, but I remember that day you were talking about your views on The Great Gatsby in class and I thought you sounded so smart and it was kind of hot how you just totally got what was in his head. But I must have been looking at you for too long, because Frankie started making fun of me, which is why I started throwing shit at you. I mean, it’s just a vicious cycle, and guys like Frank would never let me hear the end of it if they heard I like you, I mean, God, I would so totally get my ass kicked.

So yeah, the other day, I mean it really sucked because I was in the library looking at the yearbook from freshman year because I wanted to remember what you looked like, and Frankie came around the corner behind me, and I was like, busted! So I started making fun of you, only I could tell he wasn’t buying it. So when we ran into you later and I tripped you, I thought it would get him off my back. I seriously did not think you would hit the ground so hard. And yeah, after that I wanted to make it look believable, but I wasn’t trying to hurt you – I was really faking those punches. But I guess it must have been pretty fucking scary anyway. And then when you started crying, I felt so, so shitty about it. I was like, he really thinks I want to hurt him, which is like so far from the truth.

Anyway, I’m not going to do that stupid shit anymore. I don’t care what Frankie thinks. And I know you probably think I’m an asshole and everything, and you know, you might be right. But I just wanted to ask you if you wanted to do something sometime. Like maybe we could take the train into the city or something. God, I am so sick of high school. You know what I mean?

Ferris

I was born into this prison

2007-09-11T13:56:27Z

Dear Erin,

I’m sorry if this letter is difficult for you to make out – I didn’t want to turn the light on and wake you. You may well ask why I’m writing you at all, since I have literally every chance in the world to talk to you. But I just can’t bring myself to say it out loud.

Erin, I’m not just saying this as your conjoined twin, but as your friend: You have excessive and appalling body odor.

I know what you’re going to say: Elissa, how can I alone have excessive body odor? I never would have thought it possible, but it’s true. I am so sick of you complaining that the water is too hot or too cold and managing to stay out of the spray altogether. I am tired of lecturing you about how soap is NOT a marketing conspiracy, and for the last time, shampoo might strip your hair of its natural oils, but there are creatures living and dying in those oils and you NEED TO EVICT THEM. I am the one person you cannot lie to about having brushed your teeth, Erin. And night after night I wash my foot and slather it in peppermint lotion, but the stench of your foot wafts in over it, until the room smells like Peppermint Patty’s crypt. And I know, you are terrified of absorbing aluminum through your pit, but those hippie crystal deodorants are like roll-on stench factories and I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE.

Honey, you have got to believe me. The air is so thick with your foul odor that it’s giving me a nosebleed. Do you remember that time we saw a mouse come running across the floor and then drop dead? There’s a reason why you’re the only one who found it funny.

I love cats. Did you know that about me? I’ve been wanting to pet one for the past eighteen years, but they won’t come near us.

And I swear, that one time we were babysitting for Tommy Glorioso and he was hospitalized for an asthma attack, I think you’re the one who put him there. It’s a miracle we haven’t been incarcerated just so they could hose you down.

I don’t want to hear that none of this affects you. We missed the prom because of you!

Erin, I like boys. Why don’t WE like boys? Believe me, we are total hotties, and seriously, what guy would not want to get a little Siamese action? I can think of one who did: Eddie McAllister. Remember the first day of senior year when he transferred in? He was walking straight towards us, and what happened? He got that look we’ve seen so many times before, then he stopped short, nervously checked his pits, and took off in the opposite direction. Your B.O. chased away the coolest guy in school!

And you know how people keep calling me “the older twin?” Ha ha ha. Well it’s because this GAS MASK is AGING ME. I know you thought I was being all funny and weird, but I swear to you, I can’t sleep without it.

Erin, I am begging you from the depths of our conjoined heart: take an interest in your personal hygiene or I’m telling mom.

Love always,

Elissa