live by the sandwich sword, die by the sandwich sword

One of my goals as a writer is to one day have my correspondence posthumously published. Should that happen, dear reader, shed a tear for the poor intern that has to go through the reams of my written interactions with other humans, since most of it exists in the form of instant message conversations with strangers I met on hornyboredmoms.net, in which I unsuccesfully attempt to talk them into turning on their webcams and showing me the two-decades-old tattoo hidden under their sweatpants, a tattoo which serves as a mocking vestigial reminder of a forgotten time when life’s possibilities seemed endless, with any number of avenues available to them that didn’t involve van ride after thankless van ride from Montessori school to soccer practice to gymnastics to parent-teacher conference in an unending, dehumanizing cycle that erodes to the point of erasure any ambitions left over from the bloom of youth. Aaaaanyways, for those who can’t wait until I’m dead (clarification: to read my correspondence, I mean. For many reasons, there are likely scores of people waiting patiently to line up in the streets for the chance to spit on my corpse), I’ve included a sampling of my more accessible letters to whet your appetite:

Dear Trucker’s Helper Sex Toy Manufacturing Company:

You should really consider putting a warning on your Portable Jelly Lady, explicitly advising users not to put it in the microwave to warm it up before use. A friend of mine could have really gotten hurt this morning. Oh, never mind; it’s written right here on the package. Please disregard this letter, which I am going to mail anyway, since I have already written your address on a stamped envelope.

Dear NASA:

You know what would be a great prank? If, the next time you launched a Voyager or Hubble Space Telescope, you had somebody write “aliens suck” in really small letters, like maybe hidden under one of the insulator panels. Can you imagine the look on the aliens’ faces when they figured out what that meant? Classic. The beauty part of it is that they’d have plenty of time to cool off during the thousand light-year trip to destroy the earth, and by the time they got here, they’d probably just want to hang out and drink some beers with such a hilarious species that doesn’t take itself too seriously.


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July 2010
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