she writes more of these things than I do . . .

Dear Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow,

I'm going to get right to the point. I think you should all meet. I think you all have very different views of reality, but since you never have any sort of reference point, you just don't know. Yesterday, some might say you're constantly living in the past, which in the most literal sense of the word is quite true. But really, you have no past in which to live. On the plus side, though, troubles seem far away for you--or so I've been told through song. Yesterday, you are "unpredictable," but only because it is literally impossible to "predict" the past. Today, you are constantly changing. Unlike Yesterday and Tomorrow, your existence is constantly in the process of being formed. Yesterday stays absolutely still and doesn't change, and Tomorrow is so fluidly vague and conceptual, that change is not necessarily something that can be measured. But Today, it seems like really you're really just suffering from a constant case of middle-child-syndrome. Tomorrow is your younger sibling. You have to make sure to keep him in mind with each of your actions--considering with each step how it might influence Tomorrow, who can be extremely impressionable. Yesterday is your older sibling. It wasn't long ago that Yesterday was a Today just like you. It's often a good idea to pay close attention to how Yesterday behaved when he was your age. Although, it should be mentioned that with every day, the challenges that present themselves can change quite radically. Tomorrow, you're really mysterious but also ambitious. You are constantly dieting and dealing with Today's other hand-me-downs like essays and yardwork. Today never hesitates to offer your services for anything that he doesn't want to do himself. You often get the short end of the stick, but don't worry: in a few hours, you'll have a Tomorrow of your own to dump chores and whatnot onto. Of course, by that time, you will be Today.

In any case, I feel like if the three of you were to meet, it would help all three of you. Yesterday, if you meet Today and Tomorrow, you might get a better sense of the impact of your actions. Today, if you meet your "siblings" it might make the ordeal a bit more bearable--not to mention, you might make more of an effort to take initiative rather than dumping your dirty work on Tomorrow. And Tomorrow, you would get a glimpse into your future, and perhaps aim yourself in a more specific direction--start littering yourself with appointments and meetings in order to keep your future selves both entertained and goal-oriented.

So I think you three should set aside your differences and get together sometime. That's my recommendation. It's up to you to figure out how to do that. Give Stephen Hawking a call. Or maybe H.G. Wells (although, it may be best to stay within the realm of non-fiction). That's your job, Today. Don't dump it on Tomorrow.

-Tessa

get together again, for old time's sake . . .

Dear Larger Version of Annette,

You’ve put on a little extra weight, I am telling you this because I care and also because I miss you. Stop making up excuses. We will both feel better if you just use me. You are fully capable of going for a run, I just can’t comprehend why you wouldn’t and why you don’t. You and I used to be tight, running used to be a fun hobby. Now I hardly see you anymore. Sometimes you open the closet and see me sitting there, I get excited thinking that this will be the day I finally get to run again. Then you close the door and I am left alone in the dark, again. Please, just go for a run for me. I need it, it’s what I was made for and this closet time has started to get to me.

-Your Nike+ running shoes collecting dust in the closet

from What's That Blog

meniality rears its tedious head . . .

Dear Work,

Why must the day be so long? Why can we not be civilized and work the necessary amount of time to get all the work done that is required? If I finish everything I need to do by 2:30, why can I not go home? You know as well as I that I'll just sit around and read about Amy Winehouse's emphysema or Jamie Lynn Spears's baby. Then alt-tab to pretend that I'm reading that exact same email notifying us about the union strike, like I can't hear it from here.

But really. Is the 40-hour work week really necessary? Must I draft another letter to your friend, the US Government and ask that the standards of work be amended to suit the changing face of e-business? Things get done faster. There is no need to be here for 8 hours, and because that is SUCH a large portion of the day, it incites more laziness and time-wasting in order for an employee to feel like this is not slavery. I don't actually care about Amy Winehouse. If I was given the time I need, and set free once the requirements of my day had been met, I would not read about such garbage in order to fill up the small minutes between large tasks.

I implore you, Work. Set me free. Or at least recommend me to a good place that does adhere to such exalted work standards.

Sincerely,
Probably everyone here

from meelou

it isn't so hard to understand . . .

Dear Anonymous,

I would have told you this a long time ago, but the words never seemed appropriate. When someone confesses love, usually they want a committed relationship to develop out of it. I had no idea how to say, "I'm in love!" without you assuming I wanted more than you could give. What should be a declaration of joyous emotion usually makes people feel like shit: I feel vulnerable and anxious confessing it, and I feel pressured and guilty when someone else confesses that they are in love with me.

I do not want anything extra from you. I have no intention of trying to become your girlfriend. I feel bonded to you somewhere between friendship and romance, somewhere a little more enlightened than lust and less committed than monogamous love.

I want you to ask me to come home with you, but not to come home to you.

Sincerely,
Vi

being mean is frequently funny . . .

Dear Middle Aged Code Pink Protestor,

It was so nice to start my morning off with a slice of your hypocrisy pie. I thought it was especially cute when I walked past you at 8:30 in the morning and you yelled “wake up,” at me. I thought it was extra cute when you forced a pamphlet into my hands and then held my hand while looking somberly into my eyes and then whispering “wake up.”

After our delightful meeting this morning that not only challenged the war but also the conventional standards of social interaction betwixt strangers (LADY HELD MY HAND) I was forced to assemble a brief list of reasons why I hate you.

1.) Ahh boomers, there are a lot of reasons I think you are self deluded assholes. For starters let us more beyond that “we ended the war,” none sense because the vast majority of you were not involved in student protests. For the minority of you who were involved in the student protest movement congrat’s, I mean seriously you made the rain fall totes hard, what was that, 5 years between the 68' riots and the Nixon pulling out of Vietnam? Yeah I think it was and didn’t he pull out of Vietnam for a myriad of reasons, only one of which was the protest movement? So like good job or whatever can we move beyond all your high and mighty generation Q bullshit, thanks.

2.) Hey I am against the war and don’t like that it is my generation who is fighting the war, maybe I would like to protest with you? Oh fuck wait, I can’t because I have a crap load of student loans which I took out to go to college because since you graduated the cost of a college education has tripled. Plus it is harder and harder to get government aide so I guess I will have to go to my bitch job this morning to pay for the college education that you insisted I get, thanks.

3.) I was not the one who gave up on the dream, bought a Volvo, voted for Regan and elected Bush twice, so you can take that smug look off your face old-timer.

I will not be judged as a yuppie by you people, in all likelihood this is the first time you have been to the financial district in years before 10am. You probably live in the East Bay and fill your life with childcare and book clubs. Those of us involved in the world of work, which is coincidentally where real power is born are not fools nor have we lost the republican spirit this nation was founded on. We do however have to make rent, so take your judgement elsewhere boomers.

-CT

beware what people do not say . . .

Dear Anonymous,

There I was, with you and him and him. Of course, one of the hims was your date, and the presence of us other two was transparently to serve as a social buffer (or posse or safety net). I have a tendency to dominate conversations, but as this was primarily your date with Boy #1, I decided to not tell any of my infamous stories or gossip or tease Boy #1 about anything that might make you dislike him. But it meant I bit my tongue continuously - you could probably see my eyes twinkle with the pain. Let me tell you a few things you obviously did not know.

The male roommates I mentioned include my boyfriend, but that statement I made about needing someone to take me out was still true. It's a long stupid conversation that would have completely distracted you from your date and probably make you dislike me. You liked me. I liked you. You're a cool girl. Here we go to dispell some assumptions and make some prophecies:

Boy #2 and I are not a couple, although we have slept together. Our whole dynamic seemed weird to you, I could tell. Anyway, speaking of sex:

I have slept with Boy #1, several times. He wants to be dominated, which you obviously can't tell from his dominant personality. Playing the passive little girl is not going to get him - you need to be more aggressive about it. There's a high likelihood he will not open his eyes frequently while in bed. He might start saying things you don't want to hear if you get into a dominant sexual position, so consider yourself warned.

He will probably end up hurting your feelings in some way, and I hope you like drinking ALL the time, because he does. But he also liked you less as you became sloppier in your drunkenness, so find a way to drink, but reign it in. This contradiction may take practice to execute well.

It will be easy for him to keep secrets from you, unless you really push it, in which case he will be unnecessarily mean about being honest.

That weird homosexual undertone of Boy #1 & Boy #2's friendship? Yeah, that's not just a joke. Boy #1 has some insecurities when he's next to Boy #2, which makes me wonder why he invited Boy #2 to his date. I think they want to fuck each other - you may be playfully asked to compare the two in looks or personality, so start planning your diplomatic answer now.

And that pattern Boy #1 was establishing of not asking you any questions about yourself, that's because we were in a group. He will ask more of those questions if the two of you are alone, but he won't remember any of the answers. He'll probably forget them because he likes to have conversations while the television is on. He tricks himself into thinking he can concentrate because he puts the damn thing on mute, but he's wrong. Oh, and it's all about reality tv shows (which he feels guilty about liking) and History Channel/A & E real-crime shows (which make him feel outraged) at his place. These two types of shows are particularly annoying to try and watch while muted, especially if you are "having a conversation" at the same time.

But he's not a bad guy. He just says he is so he'll scare away the girls with weak constitutions.

I guess what I wanted to tell you is: you probably don't deserve what's coming your way. Unless, of course, you're a truly hardcore stone-cold bitch and were merely biting your tongue about it the whole evening.

-Vi

P.S. Boy #1 has a silly tattoo of a musical note on his back, and may also show you his recording studio, but the motherfucker hasn't played a show in at least a year. Stay on your toes.

unwitting contribution from a new friend . . .

Dear whoever stole my car from the 300 block of Fell St, sometime between Thursday April 17 and Sunday April 20:

I would like to take a moment and point out a couple of things to you.

1.) Congratulations. You stole a 16 year old Swedish car with almost 200,000 miles on it. I hope you're proud of yourself. The leather upholstry (as you've probably discovered) is trashed on the passenger's side. You had better do something about that. The seat warmers don't work anymore.

Seriously, though: it's not like you stole, you know, a CAMRY or something, so you obviously had to have been pretty good at what you were doing. You must have practice. However, now that she's yours, you had better treat her like the princess she is. That means 91 octane gas, bucko. And frequent oil changes (she's actually due for one). And don't ride that clutch.

2.) I want my Ray-Bans back. And CD of Steely Dan's "Gaucho." And the mix CDs a lady friend made for me. I want ALL of my CDs back, in fact, you inconsiderate prick. And my cassettes. My copy of Garth Brook's self-titled release is in that car. I got it from my uncle in 1993 for Christmas. I hope that makes you feel absolutley wretched, like you just got your lunch money stolen. Just gimme back my damn CDs. I can't afford to replace them all.

3.) I've hooked up with three girls in the back of that car. Okay, just two.

4.) Her name is Arlene.

If this happens to move you at all (or if anybody reading this sees a black SAAB with CA Licence plate # 6BGS239 around the city), I'd love it if you'd let me know. I'd also buy you a beer. Or a six pack. I'm poor.

-J.K.

this letter still begs to be sent . . .

Anonymous,

You attack me for not telling you "why," when all you needed was to simply ask, "why?" That is, if you actually wanted to know. In affairs of the heart and the flesh, many prefer to not know, and so my restraint in explanation was meant as measured respect, not avoidance or dishonesty.

But you never did ask why I ended it, why I tried to scale it back. If you have somehow found your way upon this, and if you never asked why because you truly did not want to know, then stop reading now. I am about to explain why. Not for you, but for myself. It is a fine explanation, and it has been sitting upon my mind like a well-written line in a play that had to go undelivered, as the other actor in the scene forgot to prompt it. That is why I write it here, for a somewhat public, instead of actually sending it to you - because like a line in a play, it is more about presentation than actual communication at this point.

Your accusations of selfishness reveal that you are well aware of how I have spurned previous lovers - simple withdrawal, denial of phone calls, deletion of emails. In short, with callousness and without warning. I feel you should have seen what meager explanation I gave you as a sign of respect in comparison, but I can see how emotion would have blinded you to this possibility.

We were unable to communicate, as evidenced by the abundance of words we needed to exchange in order to preface any physical interaction. Your denial of our friendship (at least my version of it) ever existing was spot-on, but it was not hurtful. I had realized that truth the first night we kissed, but was unable to conceptualize it at the time. My belief that we had a level of tacit understanding was immediately shattered when talking became a requisite, and when the talking did not come easily. This inability to communicate never stemmed from dissatisfaction in the bedroom, but rather resulted in it.

I do not feel guilty, although you may like me to, for spurning you. I also do not accuse you of letting me down or any such thing. Not everyone can communicate with one another, and there is no one to blame for that. Words can only go so far. Knowing that they have reached their limit here, I have none left for you.

I only wonder, if you had asked why, how you would have then reacted. But I don't really want to know that, which is why I never wrote you this letter, and why you never read it.

-Vi

first contributor post . . .

Dear Sleep,

Listen, Sleep. I got some questions for you.

Where were you on the night of April 2, 2008 at 9 o'clock pm? I believe we we had arranged to meet in room D14-B in the Hitch Residential Suites on the campus of the University of California, Los Angeles. We were supposed to have a five-hour rendez-vous in preparation for my 3am-9am work shift. I was there. I kept my end of the deal. You, however, were nowhere to be found.

Where were you, Sleep? Where? And don't say "in those NyQuil caplets." Drugs are not the answer, Sleep. You're an enabler for young, impressionable college students. You should know that your absence has its consequences. I haven't seen you in over 22 hours. And I won't have the opportunity to catch up with you for another 6 hours or so because I have classes and whatnot. And unless I get a bit more energetic, I shan't make the best of first impressions in my film discussion. Am I the only one who is upset about this?

I miss you, Sleep. I miss our talks. All in all, Sleep, I think my feelings for you would best be expressed in the words The Beatles (and less-importantly, the Across the Universe Soundtrack): I want you (dun dun dun dun) I want you so baaaaaad.

I'll see you in a few hours. You know where to find me.

You better show up.

-Tessa

so you know this blog has not been forgotten . . .

Dear bed,

What is going on? You have seemed so distant lately and I wish you would tell me why. When we get close at night, you don't seem as soft, you don't welcome me as warmly. Mere days ago, things were perfect between us: you carried me gently to sleep, you were the only place I felt relaxed, you were my sanctuary.

But now, there is something missing. Even when I am with you, I feel so alone. Your blankets don't keep me as warm, they don't wrap around me as tightly. I avoid you as long as possible, until sleep forces me into your arms and even then, it is a loveless embrace.

I have tried to get the spark back. I've touched parts of you I have long neglected. I've tried every position I can conceive of. But nothing seems to work. You lie there physically surrendering to me, but withholding the tenderness that I need. What is stopping you?

It's him, isn't it?

Tuesday's not even worth mentioning . . .

Dear Thursday,

I think you are my favorite day of the week, in a traditional 5 days of work/school, 2 days rest cycle. I can't be sure; societal programming is heavily in favor of Saturday, Friday, and even Wednesday. Sunday has managed to become a calm domestic cornerstone, its enforced sedentariness serving as a foundation more than a prison. Maybe I love you so much because you don't have these expectations that you inevitably fail to live up to, like the other days.

Of course, Monday night is always the swing favorite - the night I feel most like going out, being social, and getting drunk. There's no way to compete with the wildly contradicting emotions that bespotted night puts me through. But you, Thursday, your slow unwinding afternoons have provided me with the kind of pleasure completely unexpected from the day before the day before I'm allowed to sleep in. You, after ramping up to full speed, are the strange joy of taking your foot off the pedal and just drifting.

Something in the way you unfold, you serve as a slow coasting down to a calm rest; you're the little waves caused by the cresting of the larger wave. If Wednesday is truly "hump day," when everyone hits the apex of the week, then you, honey, are the afterglow.

Love,
Vi

P.S. Tell Friday to fuck off. I hate that arrogant prick.

sometimes it's all you -can- say . . .

Dear Anonymous,

I love you.

because I want MORE words, not fewer . . .

Dear political correctness,

I never ask you for much. You have to admit, I'm a very good cultural participant. As oppressive as you might be, you really have made me think twice about who I might offend with my words and, in the long run, although you have shrunken my vocabulary, you have broadened my heart.

So, please, I only ask you for one thing. Can we have the word "retarded" back? I know you lend yourself to this linguistic trend of reclamation, alá "cunt," "queer" and even "nigger," but only when the words are being reclaimed by the communities themselves. Well, I may not be in a wheelchair, but I do wear glasses and have to take blood medication, and goddammit, I want "retarded" back! I don't even want to reclaim it, I just want to use it like it was meant to be used.

You see, "retard" has a perfectly legitimate, wonderfully specific meaning. It means, please do not attack me for using a conservative, traditional, oppressive dictionary written by a Great Straight White Male to define it, but, it means: "delay or hold back in terms of progress, development, or accomplishment."

Wow, it's so amazing. And you know why it's useful? Because "progress," "development," and "accomplishment" are not words that exclusively refer to the body or the mind, or even to people!

And yet, if I try to drop a nice, proper, deliciously phrased usage of this word in polite conversation, I get funny looks, if not a full-on comment about the word. It ruins everything. You've trained us so successfully that we can't even use words anymore.

I know what you're thinking: Why not the words "delay," "hinder," "obstruct," "hamper," "detain," or "inhibit?"

I'll tell you why. They don't sound as good as "retard." "Retard" sounds like what it is, it sounds like a huge word stuck inside a small word, unable to progress, develop, or accomplish a larger meaning. It's wondrous, and I love it, and it's your fault that it now sounds like something in terms of disfigurement or disgust, because it became one of your words, used inversely as its own label of intolerance. Not fair! If poor soil retards the growth of my lilies, why can't I say that?! I want to say that!

Look, as an English major, I've let a ton of perfectly good words go. I miss "gay," in particular, and "niggardly" is a verbal no-no, now. "Queer" was a great way to describe something slightly off, but now it reeks of politics. "Fag" was like the hippest thing to casually light on fire, until it hit this side of the ocean and referred to a person. I can't "wop" anyone over the head, or even objectively describe Jewishness without getting in some kind of trouble. I have to be careful with the color spectrum, black, red, brown, and yellow, or else I'll have you to answer to with my friends, my job, my livelihood.

For an educated young woman who enjoys the notion of "freedom of expression," I have certainly given up words, phrases, and even ideas, all for you, frequently at the expense of honesty. And that's fine. I understand. I don't want to hurt anyone, deny anyone their roots, their right to specific struggles, and so on.

Listen, I'm not cruel. I just want the one word. Keep the rest. My desires are humble. I just want you to stop retarding my freedom of expression.

college parties like anthropological experiments . . .

Dear anonymous college freshman,

No, I don't go to this school anymore. No, I don't care about your inside jokes. This is what I know: that clique you've formed will fall apart, that girl who's in it is not going to fall in love with you, there is no novelty to what you're saying, but you don't know or care about that, at all.

You probably find yourself unattractive, but if you could get your obnoxiously adolescent lust under control, you'd be fuckable for a wide range of women who would teach you the things you inevitably need to know in order to get that girl in your clique to fall in love with you, and stay with you.

You're not going to learn very much about women, or life, or even school, by standing in a kitchen yelling at the top of your lungs while you drink unidentifiable alcohol out of an ironically purchased floaty cup.

All that lifestyle will show you is that women are fickle, you are lonely, alcohol really can substitute for meaning, and life is full of strange rituals that have nothing to do with gaining actual happiness. In the meantime, you will not experience those life lessons in the actually fun ways of fucking, crying, thinking, and laughing.

The sad thing about it is, you could. You're young, attractive, and intelligent. You could get much further in life by avoiding the scene, being direct, asking questions, and making moves. This is, trust me, far more effective than going along with the social flow and waiting for the right people to develop that attitude first and then aim in it your direction.

It's going to take a lot of hungover pain before you figure this stuff out, at which point you'll be significantly less young, attractive, or truly intelligent. But you will be having what you think is fun, which is so depressing.

So let me know when you're a senior, because right now, you, my dear, have no idea who you are.

and the award for best martyr complex goes to . . .

Dear Anonymous,

Wait, so you're rejecting me because I'm capable of hurting you? I'm capable of hurting you, so you're hurting me?

Look, we all hurt each other. Unfortunately, that's the way it goes. But hurting someone who is apologizing and asking for a second chance? A second chance, not an eighth chance, mind you. That's ridiculous.

There is a serious emotional illogic to hurting in response to being hurt; it is the cycle that creates abused children who become rapists whose victims abuse their children, it is the cycle that keeps genetically identical people locked in perpetual war for arbitrary geographical dominance, it is the reason you and I hurt each other so much those years ago.

Being unable to accept being hurt, and thus rise above it, is not only why you won't try to be my friend again, but also why human beings won't stop killing each other.

Studies show that if you put a rat alone in a cage with an electrified floor, it'll die full of tumors. Give it another rat to fight with while they are both electrocuted and they will kill each other, but die tumor-free.

Human beings are better than rats, and so it still hurts my feelings that you won't talk to me. Maybe if I could just call you a rat I'd be done with it, but I'd rather have a tumor than the world have another Holocaust.

I'm gonna make a mistake . . .

Dear Anonymous,

There are certain things that, if you are an informed homo sapien, are common sense about experience. If you stay up too late too many nights in a row, no amount of coffee will keep you awake. Fall in love when you are young and you will have heartbreak. If there is a potential for pain, pain will manifest itself. Our bodies will fail us when we least expect it, our lives will collapse when they seem most in place. Just because you are thinking about someone does not mean they are thinking of you, too. Friendships will fade away, with no fanfare. Sleep with someone who is “just a friend” and it will not work out.

You do not need to live all of these things to know they are true. They are depicted faithfully and extensively in literature, film, television, and music. The arts, perhaps, exist to tell the common human stories, and many are of pain. Even the good feelings have pain. Fall in love and you will be vulnerable. Move to a beautiful new city and you will feel alone. Leave an abusive boyfriend and you will still miss him.

Should we then avoid what thousands of years of culture tell us will cause pain? Should we live on farms and eat simply so as to avoid even the pain of indigestion? Or should we try to ignore all those lessons, live and not learn, fall in love with that married woman, move to that foreign city, fuck our best friend, fall hard into teenage love, run away from our no-good husbands, wave gently goodbye to our college friends, stay up late, submit poems and demo tapes that will be rejected? Should we just go ahead and make mistakes?

Yes. Because when people stop making mistakes, willfully, culture will stop. It's the same stories over and over only because we keep thinking of new ways to tell them. New references for new times, new metaphors that are sharper and truer than others. Same lessons, new methods. Throw what you feel into the big pot of experience. Here is the number one reason why you should willfully, gleefully, make a mistake from time to time:

If you avoid things simply because they haven't worked out for others, then you avoid life itself.

just to get the ball rolling . . .

Dear Mother,

I have not met you and yet I already admire and respect you immensely based on solely your son's recounting of your life and personality.

It is difficult to produce a lovable man, I would imagine. It is hard enough to grab one who is already part-grown and try to shape something decent out of him, let alone mold one properly from the ground up amidst the chaos of your own life. But you, somehow, have done it. Of course, he is only half-grown himself, still flawed and awkward and headstrong, but learning fiercely, and only getting better.

I know that, as time goes by, whether he and I stay together or split apart, and whether he breaks my heart or I his, he will continue to be a good man for the rest of his life, steadily improving himself and those around him. I know that this is true because, despite his sometimes thick head, he has the most important quality a man can have, one that is invariably the result of an extraordinary mother -- an open heart.

Maybe, when we finally do meet, we won't even like each other. But even if we become the kind of domestic in-laws who spit drunken insults at each other over every Thanksgiving dinner, we will always have this one thing in common: a beautiful boy that we love the best that we can, with all that we've got, each in our own way.

Because you are his mother, I know full well that I will never be able to love him as much as you do. But I hope you take it as a comfort, and not a challenge, that I am damn well going to try.

-Girlfriend

P.S. Of course, your influence might also be the source of those personality traits of his that I would rather do without, but, if you prefer, we can agree to blame those on his father.

initial epistle

Dear reader,

I love to write letters. I compose them in my head all the time: to people I love and hate and barely know, people from my past, present, and future. Sometimes, to vague groups of people ("those who think berets look cool") or to inanimate objects ("the coffee pot I forgot to turn off"). Usually, though, it's to a person I have actually known, or hope to know someday.

These letters are all, in some way, unsendable. But I write them anyway, and I have to put them somewhere. I still want them to be read, even if not by the intended recipient. Frequently, I find them beautiful, funny, interesting, or, at the very least, cathartic.

Many people mentally compose things in their heads, but then there's nowhere for them to go. Well, I'm utilizing the world's largest dumping ground (read: the internet) to put all these things out there. If you are currently wishing you'd thought of this first, then know I would love to eventually add more authors to this blog.

Names will be altered to protect the innocent.

Sincerely,
Vi

P.S. The blog address comes from a combination of "anonymous," which most of the letters will be addressed to, and "apostrophe," which for you non-English majors is "an exclamatory passage in a speech or poem addressed to a person (typically one who is dead or absent) or thing (typically one that is personified)."