Category Archives: letter

Open Letter To Myself

Almie Rose

Dear Almie,

GET IT TOGETHER. This is the second day in a row you’ve worn sweatpants and I’m guessing tomorrow will be the third. Okay, so you gained some weight, and sweat pants are maybe the only thing that fit you comfortably right now. But you can’t keep doing this. It’s unseemly. You’re not a college student. You can’t roll out of bed in sweatpants and then wear the sweatpants with a hoodie up top. You just CAN’T.

And STOP DRINKING WINE AT 3-4 IN THE AFTERNOON. Yeah, you’re a freelance writer, you can do it, but can doesn’t mean should. And yeah, maybe it makes you a better writer, because you feel freer. And yeah, maybe it’s cheaper than going out. And yeah, okay, you know what, go ahead and keep drinking.

Look, it’s okay that you hate pants. We all hate pants. It’s okay. Pants are the enemy. If they don’t have an elastic waistband, they’re not worth wearing. But don’t use that as an excuse to wear sweatpants every day. You gained the weight, you can take it off. You’re being lazy.

AND YOU HATE LAZINESS. “Don’t be afraid to try again. Everyone goes south, every now and then.” Who said that, Almie? Who said that? That’s right, Billy Fucking Joel said that. What does that have to do with anything? Well, it’s playing right now. So…so there’s that. What was the point? Oh yeah, laziness. DON’T BE THAT WAY. Laziness is an abhorrent trait. You work really hard but you relax just as hard. I know that at the end of the day, the last thing you feel like doing is the dishes, but who’s going to them if you don’t? Yeah you could wait around for your boyfriend to do them for you, but do you really want to do that? I mean, yeah you kind of do. BUT DON’T DO THAT. HE AIN’T YO MAID, GIRL. Is he Robin Williams in a wig? No? Then are we to understand he’s not Mrs. Doubtfire? Correct. He is NOT Mrs. Doubtfire. You’ve been over this theory and it’s been debunked, as he looks NOTHING LIKE Mrs. Doubtfire.

Almie, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT.

Okay, let’s just sum this up: get it together, lose weight, wear less sweatpants, do the dishes.

Good talk.

Love,

Almie

If you could write an open letter to yourself, what would it say? Write your own in the comments.

Photo credit: Patrick Gookin.

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Thoughts from New York.

GUYS: If a girl thinks you’re gay, it means she thinks, “That man dresses well, has exceptional taste and style, looks like he showers, and is actually trying to talk to me instead of grabbing at my boobs.” It’s a compliment.

GIRLS: If you’re with a guy (or girl or anyone), stop getting insecure about their ex-girlfriends. They’re with you know. Sure, there’s curiosity and then there’s angst. I NEED TO GET BETTER AT THIS ONE.

EVERYONE: Can we just be kinder to each other? Being cynical is tired. Try something else.

BEN STILLER: I saw you on Broadway in “House of Blue Leaves” and you are an astonishingly good actor. Can you please cut it the fuck out with this Meet The Parent shit? Do you not have enough money at this point? Do you really need more cars? Boats? Cashmere underwear? I don’t know. Just stop it. This is why no one likes you. Stop it. Be good. Let yourself be good. I believe in you, Ben Stiller. I believe in you.

CAB DRIVER WHO DROVE LIKE THE COPS WERE CHASING US: I undertipped you on PURPOSE. THAT WAS THE SCARIEST RIDE OF MY LIFE. AND WHEN I SAID I’LL GET OUT HERE, YOU KEPT DRIVING. BETWEEN THAT AND YOUR MR. TOAD’S WILD RIDE DRIVING ABILITIES, I THOUGHT I WAS GOING TO DIE. WE ALMOST HIT 3 DIFFERENT CARS. THIS WAS NOT AN AVERAGE CAB RIDE, WHERE ONE HITS ALMOST 2 CARS. 3 IS 1 TOO MANY. 3 IS INSANE.

Bonus: Can we not wear backpacks and capris to the theater?

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Gapped

apocalypstick drawing almie rose

drawing by Jaranodle

Dear The Gap,

What the hell are you doing? At no other store in the world am I a size zero. Shame on you for screwing with my already fragile body image. How many young women have eating disorders? How many young women are just plain discouraged by their bodies? You’re not helping by sizing your clothing smaller. You’re making me feel worse. You’re confusing me. You’re making me wonder, what the hell is so wrong with my body that you have to label me two sizes smaller than I am? Your sizing isn’t just silly, it’s downright dangerous. Cut it out, get real, stop being ridiculous.

Thanks,

Almie/Apocalypstick

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Dear Luke Perry.

 

hungonyou

 

“Dear Luke Perry,

How’s it hanging, bro?”

 

No wait, that’s dumb, let me start over.

 

“Dear Luke Perry,

I’ve been thinking about you”

 

No that’s fucking creepy.

 

“Dear Luke Perry,

How are you? I know we don’t know each other so it may seem weird for me to address you like we do, asking how you are and such, but anyway I hope you’re well. Uh.”

 

I need to start over. Last time. I promise.

 

“Dear Luke Perry,

Look I’ll just put it all out there. I think you are criminally underrated as an actor. I don’t know who I would file charges against though. Not you. Maybe Hollywood? I don’t know. BH 90210 is a given but you’re so good in so many other things. Like when you appeared as a creepy dude on Law & Order: SVU, you deserved an Emmy. Or when you played that creepy dude on Oz. Emmy. Or even when you voiced yourself on The Simpsons and Family Guy. Emmy and Emmy. That’s like six Emmys. By the way, I’m not good at math.

I think you’re attractive, OK? Really attractive. I don’t know if we have anything in common aside from our mutual adoration of you. You probably like to read. I like to read. I bet you occasionally eat and sleep. I do those things too! I think you like to surf and I’ve never done that. But I would be willing to try. I would probably cry a lot and come close to drowning but I think that’s part of any relationship.

Whoa, I guess I’m moving a little fast. We don’t even know each other. And fan letters aren’t the best way of saying, “Hey I’d like to date you.” I get lovely fan letters but once in a while I get creepy ones. And it’s like, dude I’m not going to fly to Argentina to be your wife. I don’t know where you got that idea from my blog that that was even a possibility. But my readers, with the exception of that one creepy dude, are really fantastic.

But enough about me. Or maybe not, I don’t know. I’m pretty great. Not as great as you though.

Oh gosh, listen to me, gushing over you. Someone said they saw you on chatroulette. Chatroulette scares the hell out of me and I’ve never done it but I’d do it for you.

Why don’t you have a twitter? Is it because of people like me? I understand. I’m a little much. But on the plus side, I’m young, fun, smart, funny, and I love looking at things and talking and not talking. Also people have said that I have an almost crazy-creepy symmetrical face. I don’t know if that interests you. I’m just throwing it out there.

Anyway. I’d like to close with this: carry on my wayward son. They’ll be peace when you are done. Lay your weary head to rest. Don’t you cry no more. And–”

 

Actually, you know what, it’s probably best that we never met.

Ring Of Fire — Amanda Jo Williams

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