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.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
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
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
Friday, April 4, 2008
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
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
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
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?
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?
Friday, March 14, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Monday, March 3, 2008
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.
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.
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