I'm on Goodreads, and, for a bibliophile who loves rating things, it's obviously a pretty swell place. My friends Non and Jessica met on the reader-oriented site and were later married in a book-themed wedding. But who would've guessed that I too would find love there? Just received this letter from my future teenage Russian bride-to-be:
holle dear
Nice to meet you My name is miss helen. am a young girl I was impressed when i saw your profile today and i will like to establish a long lasting relationship with you. In addition, i will like you to reply me through my e-mail address so that i will give you my picture of you to know whom i am, please i will like to tell you how much interested i am in knowing more about you, i think we can start from here and share our feelings together as one. please contact me back with my mail address Thanks waiting to hear from you dear.yours new friend
I just hope Eat Pray Love isn't her favorite book, because then we are OVER.
Showing posts with label Letters. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Letters. Show all posts
Monday, November 5, 2012
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Dear Anonymous Girl
Dear Anonymous Person,
I got your anonymous comment on one of my poems (from a bedroom window, the sea) and it's baffled the hell out of me since. It reads:
You hurt me. And I can't yet forgive you for that. Get out of my head.
Look here, anonymous person, this isn't the forum for whatever the hell you want to talk about (as I assume it's not about something fun, like high-fives, video games or candy). Also, I can't think of any dudes I know that would write a quick bite that. If a guy did that, it would be, "You were a dick to me. Fuck you forever." Also, they'd still include their name, I bet. So, naturally, I assume you are of the female variety, and a passive-aggressive member of your gender at that.
Well, listen, lady, I've been hurting girls for as long as I've understood them as people, creatures, things and dreams I've wanted, so you're going to have to be more specific. Sure, it's more emotional hurt now, since we're very much adults at this point. But, when I was younger, it was physical hurt. I mean, I threw dirt clods and rocks at my first crush in third grade and she probably still wasn't entirely sure who I was.
"Why is that tall kid throwing stuff at me? Also, why is his shirt tucked in? Why does he wear such abnormally long socks?" I can only assume she wondered.
I swear, all that shit made sense to me in third grade, everything from the rocks to the socks.
However, I didn't hurt my second crush. But all of that bottled up insanity had to go somewhere, right? Right! So, instead, I just stared at her like some young serial killer (with a better fashion sense gained in the two-year gap) and just made fun of other girls in our class. So I suppose I hurt her by hurting her friends. I guess it wasn't physical. Also, I don't know if I really hurt her friends. I think it made me more popular with her friends actually. Fifth grade was pretty weird, now that I think about it.
In junior high, I threw paper airplanes at the girl I liked while also relentlessly making fun of her, so it was physical and emotional, I imagine. Well, guess what, everyone? That was middle school. Everything sucked and everyone hurt. My proudest moment then was when I flipped out and poured a full can of soda on some bully, and even that was closer to instant death than actual momentary hurt.
In high school, I just sort of collapsed as a person when I saw my teenage crush. I just spat out insane gibberish about the romantic poets and plays I wanted to see. I lied about musicians I enjoyed and what I wanted out of life. Under the pressure of not being who I thought I should be, I disappeared from her phone bill, but reappeared over and over in her diary, probably in furious cursive. I hurt her. But, hey, we were teenagers. Everything hurt and we sort of loved the agony. Every teenager is a masochist and a sadist. That's no excuse, but at least she had just cause for leaving an anonymous comment on a blog...if they even existed ten years ago.
My early college years was just one long wake of the wrecking ball. People got hurt, but everything was happening too fast too notice. Sorry. If you're from that era, I'm going to need your name, number and wherever the hell we met just to have a starting point of clearing this shit up.
And, if you're from my adventures in adulthood and you want to tell me what this is all about, contact me like a normal person. We're engaging mature people with livelihoods and well-developed communication skills. If I hurt you, then you obviously have an e-mail address or phone number of mine. I've learned a thing or two in the last handful of years. If we didn't talk things out, then there was a miscommunication. Maybe you weren't listening to me. I've been very clear as of the last two years, but I'm willing to admit that I didn't understand you or maybe misheard you. Also, let's not rule out the possibility that you were spouting off some nutty bullshit (though I am, of course, biased in the matter). I love trying to figure out the dynamics of relationships now. It's like a game. Shit, it's like Operation and I'm trying not to touch the sides while I remove your broken heart.
So, hey, anonymous girl, hit me up like how we were whenever the heck whatever the hell happened and we'll figure things out. I assume. I still have no idea who you are, what I did or why you're still so mad about it. Furthermore, you're just feeding my ego by telling me I'm still in your head. That's like...the worst combination of three sentences. All you did was build me up from terrible to great.
1) You hurt me - I feel guilt, as I don't want to hurt anyone.
2) And I can't yet forgive you for that - I feel indifference, since it sounds like you'll just let me know when you come around.
3) Get out of my head - I feel pride, for being thought about so often by someone who doesn't want to like me. Maybe sort of like a Sam and Diane thing, eh...?*
So, thank you, uncommunicative girl that I may or may not recall, your comment has left me aglow. I wish you the best of luck in your wild endeavors and look forward to one day discovering what exactly you're talking about or referring to. I'm a huge fan of mysteries.
This is all, of course, if I do actually know you. If that comment was left by just some random nobody, as a joke or whatever, well...ok, that's pretty goddamn funny. I'm probably going to start doing that on other people's blogs. Thanks for the idea.
Love,
Jake
*If you haven't done so already, check out Cheers on Netflix's Instant Stream. It has all 11 seasons and it's seriously the best show.
I got your anonymous comment on one of my poems (from a bedroom window, the sea) and it's baffled the hell out of me since. It reads:
You hurt me. And I can't yet forgive you for that. Get out of my head.
Look here, anonymous person, this isn't the forum for whatever the hell you want to talk about (as I assume it's not about something fun, like high-fives, video games or candy). Also, I can't think of any dudes I know that would write a quick bite that. If a guy did that, it would be, "You were a dick to me. Fuck you forever." Also, they'd still include their name, I bet. So, naturally, I assume you are of the female variety, and a passive-aggressive member of your gender at that.
Well, listen, lady, I've been hurting girls for as long as I've understood them as people, creatures, things and dreams I've wanted, so you're going to have to be more specific. Sure, it's more emotional hurt now, since we're very much adults at this point. But, when I was younger, it was physical hurt. I mean, I threw dirt clods and rocks at my first crush in third grade and she probably still wasn't entirely sure who I was.
"Why is that tall kid throwing stuff at me? Also, why is his shirt tucked in? Why does he wear such abnormally long socks?" I can only assume she wondered.
I swear, all that shit made sense to me in third grade, everything from the rocks to the socks.
However, I didn't hurt my second crush. But all of that bottled up insanity had to go somewhere, right? Right! So, instead, I just stared at her like some young serial killer (with a better fashion sense gained in the two-year gap) and just made fun of other girls in our class. So I suppose I hurt her by hurting her friends. I guess it wasn't physical. Also, I don't know if I really hurt her friends. I think it made me more popular with her friends actually. Fifth grade was pretty weird, now that I think about it.
In junior high, I threw paper airplanes at the girl I liked while also relentlessly making fun of her, so it was physical and emotional, I imagine. Well, guess what, everyone? That was middle school. Everything sucked and everyone hurt. My proudest moment then was when I flipped out and poured a full can of soda on some bully, and even that was closer to instant death than actual momentary hurt.
In high school, I just sort of collapsed as a person when I saw my teenage crush. I just spat out insane gibberish about the romantic poets and plays I wanted to see. I lied about musicians I enjoyed and what I wanted out of life. Under the pressure of not being who I thought I should be, I disappeared from her phone bill, but reappeared over and over in her diary, probably in furious cursive. I hurt her. But, hey, we were teenagers. Everything hurt and we sort of loved the agony. Every teenager is a masochist and a sadist. That's no excuse, but at least she had just cause for leaving an anonymous comment on a blog...if they even existed ten years ago.
My early college years was just one long wake of the wrecking ball. People got hurt, but everything was happening too fast too notice. Sorry. If you're from that era, I'm going to need your name, number and wherever the hell we met just to have a starting point of clearing this shit up.
And, if you're from my adventures in adulthood and you want to tell me what this is all about, contact me like a normal person. We're engaging mature people with livelihoods and well-developed communication skills. If I hurt you, then you obviously have an e-mail address or phone number of mine. I've learned a thing or two in the last handful of years. If we didn't talk things out, then there was a miscommunication. Maybe you weren't listening to me. I've been very clear as of the last two years, but I'm willing to admit that I didn't understand you or maybe misheard you. Also, let's not rule out the possibility that you were spouting off some nutty bullshit (though I am, of course, biased in the matter). I love trying to figure out the dynamics of relationships now. It's like a game. Shit, it's like Operation and I'm trying not to touch the sides while I remove your broken heart.
So, hey, anonymous girl, hit me up like how we were whenever the heck whatever the hell happened and we'll figure things out. I assume. I still have no idea who you are, what I did or why you're still so mad about it. Furthermore, you're just feeding my ego by telling me I'm still in your head. That's like...the worst combination of three sentences. All you did was build me up from terrible to great.
1) You hurt me - I feel guilt, as I don't want to hurt anyone.
2) And I can't yet forgive you for that - I feel indifference, since it sounds like you'll just let me know when you come around.
3) Get out of my head - I feel pride, for being thought about so often by someone who doesn't want to like me. Maybe sort of like a Sam and Diane thing, eh...?*
So, thank you, uncommunicative girl that I may or may not recall, your comment has left me aglow. I wish you the best of luck in your wild endeavors and look forward to one day discovering what exactly you're talking about or referring to. I'm a huge fan of mysteries.
This is all, of course, if I do actually know you. If that comment was left by just some random nobody, as a joke or whatever, well...ok, that's pretty goddamn funny. I'm probably going to start doing that on other people's blogs. Thanks for the idea.
Love,
Jake
*If you haven't done so already, check out Cheers on Netflix's Instant Stream. It has all 11 seasons and it's seriously the best show.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Dear Souplantation
Dear Souplantation,
I think I've outgrown you. You no longer get me stoked or, as my mother says like a goddamn Russian immigrant, "stoke me." Either way, I am without stokedness in your what-the-hell-year-is-it-and-what-state-are-we-in decorative interior.
When I was younger and you allowed my friends and I to eat and yell and basically run amok, that was different. In the last few years, I have become semi-cultured (meaning I've read the first few pages of a James Joyce book and have not giggled at dick jokes on occasion).
I am now a cultured man with elegant tastes. I've had asparagus soup that was orange, I've had wine I couldn't afford, I've even ordered Italian food from actual Italians. I mean, shit, I've had meals on four continents and in eleven countries. I've seen beyond the walls of America, dearest buffet kitchen and eatery.
Also, I opened my own restaurant when I was 6 with the help of my family (eEvita's) and then literally built a restaurant in my own fuckin' backyard when I was 22 with the help of my friends (Dive Bar). I know how to have a restaurant where the food is good and the service is exceptional. Sure, yeah, eEvita's was just a one evening thing and Dive Bar was only open for two nights, but the point is...well, I don't know what the point is.
I guess I'm just saying that I think I've outgrown you. I wear ties now. I have dress shoes. I've seen Sunset Blvd. I OWN A FUCKING QUILL, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE.
*sigh*
You were once like this kind of attractive girl who let me and my friends hook up with you in turns and the booty was sweet. I knew you weren't the prettiest girl, but you were a whole lot of fun to mess around in (eww). But, now, you've let yourself go. It's like your hair's knotted, your dresses are wrinkled and you have this loud cough that you do. But there's only one thing you do now that's good. Let's say your back massages suck (i.e. your baked potatoes), but your kisses are incredible (i.e. your cornbread and honey butter). I just have to seriously evaluate what I want out of my evening, you know?
I'm sorry. I honestly went to you tonight with a full heart, but I instead left with a full stomach and a promise to take a long hard look at myself before I return to you. We all grow out of our young flames at some point and I can only hope that you find another group of teenage anarchists to welcome.
Love,
Jake
I think I've outgrown you. You no longer get me stoked or, as my mother says like a goddamn Russian immigrant, "stoke me." Either way, I am without stokedness in your what-the-hell-year-is-it-and-what-state-are-we-in decorative interior.
When I was younger and you allowed my friends and I to eat and yell and basically run amok, that was different. In the last few years, I have become semi-cultured (meaning I've read the first few pages of a James Joyce book and have not giggled at dick jokes on occasion).
I am now a cultured man with elegant tastes. I've had asparagus soup that was orange, I've had wine I couldn't afford, I've even ordered Italian food from actual Italians. I mean, shit, I've had meals on four continents and in eleven countries. I've seen beyond the walls of America, dearest buffet kitchen and eatery.
Also, I opened my own restaurant when I was 6 with the help of my family (eEvita's) and then literally built a restaurant in my own fuckin' backyard when I was 22 with the help of my friends (Dive Bar). I know how to have a restaurant where the food is good and the service is exceptional. Sure, yeah, eEvita's was just a one evening thing and Dive Bar was only open for two nights, but the point is...well, I don't know what the point is.
I guess I'm just saying that I think I've outgrown you. I wear ties now. I have dress shoes. I've seen Sunset Blvd. I OWN A FUCKING QUILL, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE.
*sigh*
You were once like this kind of attractive girl who let me and my friends hook up with you in turns and the booty was sweet. I knew you weren't the prettiest girl, but you were a whole lot of fun to mess around in (eww). But, now, you've let yourself go. It's like your hair's knotted, your dresses are wrinkled and you have this loud cough that you do. But there's only one thing you do now that's good. Let's say your back massages suck (i.e. your baked potatoes), but your kisses are incredible (i.e. your cornbread and honey butter). I just have to seriously evaluate what I want out of my evening, you know?
I'm sorry. I honestly went to you tonight with a full heart, but I instead left with a full stomach and a promise to take a long hard look at myself before I return to you. We all grow out of our young flames at some point and I can only hope that you find another group of teenage anarchists to welcome.
Love,
Jake
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Dear Kid I Tried To Kidnap Years Ago...
Dear Kid I Tried To Kidnap Years Ago,
How are you?
I suppose you never expected to hear back from me after that muggy spring afternoon. However, I'm generally interested in how you're doing these days. But not too interested (haha).
Let's be real though. I didn't really actually do anything to you, so, if you're all pissed off about this letter, you're probably overthinking this. I mean, come on, all I did was follow you a few blocks and compliment you and try to get you in my car. Is that really all that bad? My dad use to do that to me when I'd ignore him when he was late to pick me up from school and I was actually related to him! He looked like a kidnapper!
Sure, yeah, I was in fact trying to kidnap you once you were in my car, but you don't know what I had. My car could've been a ball pit inside or filled with your friends (I wish! Haha!). But, no, you stubbornly refused me, and I suppose I can respect that. I mean, it certainly wasn't the most ideal plan. I admit, I didn't really have a gameplan. I was just kind of wingin' it, you know?
Anyway, I'm sorry if you were creeped out. I think after all these years you should be over it, but that's just me. Actually, you should be flattered. Out of your entire school, I chose you. Why? Because you were so gosh darn adorable. You looked like fun, you little asshole! Nah, I'm just joshing you. Let's pretend I didn't call you an "asshole." Let's make it that I called you a "bugger." I've never said that before, but you seem like a nice enough kid. I mean, I did choose you to be my "little buddy."
Well, I don't really know where I'm going with all of this. I'm just kind of bored here in jail. Oh, that's right! Hey, I went to jail! Guess what for? Did you guess child abduction? Ha! Gotcha! Joke's on you!
It was for murder.
How are you?
I suppose you never expected to hear back from me after that muggy spring afternoon. However, I'm generally interested in how you're doing these days. But not too interested (haha).
Let's be real though. I didn't really actually do anything to you, so, if you're all pissed off about this letter, you're probably overthinking this. I mean, come on, all I did was follow you a few blocks and compliment you and try to get you in my car. Is that really all that bad? My dad use to do that to me when I'd ignore him when he was late to pick me up from school and I was actually related to him! He looked like a kidnapper!
Sure, yeah, I was in fact trying to kidnap you once you were in my car, but you don't know what I had. My car could've been a ball pit inside or filled with your friends (I wish! Haha!). But, no, you stubbornly refused me, and I suppose I can respect that. I mean, it certainly wasn't the most ideal plan. I admit, I didn't really have a gameplan. I was just kind of wingin' it, you know?
Anyway, I'm sorry if you were creeped out. I think after all these years you should be over it, but that's just me. Actually, you should be flattered. Out of your entire school, I chose you. Why? Because you were so gosh darn adorable. You looked like fun, you little asshole! Nah, I'm just joshing you. Let's pretend I didn't call you an "asshole." Let's make it that I called you a "bugger." I've never said that before, but you seem like a nice enough kid. I mean, I did choose you to be my "little buddy."
Well, I don't really know where I'm going with all of this. I'm just kind of bored here in jail. Oh, that's right! Hey, I went to jail! Guess what for? Did you guess child abduction? Ha! Gotcha! Joke's on you!
It was for murder.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Dear Life...
Dear Life,
I used to think we were cool. It felt like we were cool. Maybe it was just the rum thinking back then and it's the terrible sobriety talking now.
But you're a son of a bitch.
Oh, sure, sure, there were the international trips, the beach days, the dinner parties, the wild nights at the bars and everything else that made me love you. And, even when my friends were talking some mad shit on you back in high school, who stood up and said you were rad?
Me.
It was me, you motherfucker.
I don't know what I did to just make you change your mind about me, but...come on, man, if there's ever been a year keep what we have alive, it'd be this year. I've donated to charity this year and I haven't stolen a single thing!
I understand why we had that rough patch back in junior high. I needed that. I needed you to totally fuck me on that one. And, boy-howdy, did you ever fuck me on that one.
But I was kind of a reckless dickhead in my first few years of college, so why choose now to make everything drag so hard, hmmm? It's like you're punishing me for being patient, supportive, hard-working and healthy. Do you want me to go back to thievery and dickery? I'll do it. So help me, I'll do it.
Fine. Whatever. You know what? I'm just going to stick around and hope you wise up and clean up your act. I know I certainly have.
Fondly,
Jake
I used to think we were cool. It felt like we were cool. Maybe it was just the rum thinking back then and it's the terrible sobriety talking now.
But you're a son of a bitch.
Oh, sure, sure, there were the international trips, the beach days, the dinner parties, the wild nights at the bars and everything else that made me love you. And, even when my friends were talking some mad shit on you back in high school, who stood up and said you were rad?
Me.
It was me, you motherfucker.
I don't know what I did to just make you change your mind about me, but...come on, man, if there's ever been a year keep what we have alive, it'd be this year. I've donated to charity this year and I haven't stolen a single thing!
I understand why we had that rough patch back in junior high. I needed that. I needed you to totally fuck me on that one. And, boy-howdy, did you ever fuck me on that one.
But I was kind of a reckless dickhead in my first few years of college, so why choose now to make everything drag so hard, hmmm? It's like you're punishing me for being patient, supportive, hard-working and healthy. Do you want me to go back to thievery and dickery? I'll do it. So help me, I'll do it.
Fine. Whatever. You know what? I'm just going to stick around and hope you wise up and clean up your act. I know I certainly have.
Fondly,
Jake
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Dear Grandma....
GRANDMA.
That's how I like writing e-mails, when it shows that I'm using a loud but welcoming voice (all capital letters, but no exclamation points).
Anyway.
What are you doing Tuesday evening? Can I take you out to dinner? I have all kinds of money with this job that I don't know what to do with. If we don't go out to dinner, I will spend the money on drugs. Lots and lots of drugs.I will probably also rent and murder strippers. And that will be on you. You don't want that. Please, nobody wants that. Especially the strippers.
Anywhere you want to go and we'll go.
I've been so crazy busy these last few months and now everything's sort of settling, and I have more time and money. I don't see you (or anyone) often enough. Also, I totally never took you out for your birthday back in August. I said I was and then I had to skip town (for legitimate reasons, like and unlike an outlaw, but even outlaws have grandmothers).
So. Dinner. Tuesday. If not Tuesday, another evening? Yes?
Hooray! Huzzah!
Love,
Jake
That's how I like writing e-mails, when it shows that I'm using a loud but welcoming voice (all capital letters, but no exclamation points).
Anyway.
What are you doing Tuesday evening? Can I take you out to dinner? I have all kinds of money with this job that I don't know what to do with. If we don't go out to dinner, I will spend the money on drugs. Lots and lots of drugs.I will probably also rent and murder strippers. And that will be on you. You don't want that. Please, nobody wants that. Especially the strippers.
Anywhere you want to go and we'll go.
I've been so crazy busy these last few months and now everything's sort of settling, and I have more time and money. I don't see you (or anyone) often enough. Also, I totally never took you out for your birthday back in August. I said I was and then I had to skip town (for legitimate reasons, like and unlike an outlaw, but even outlaws have grandmothers).
So. Dinner. Tuesday. If not Tuesday, another evening? Yes?
Hooray! Huzzah!
Love,
Jake
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