Dear Jew Fro,
You’ve been getting a little uppity lately, and I need you to chill the fuck out, already. You’ve been an active half of my hair situation all my life, and you know damn well that you have got to function in tandem with the afro to make this work.
So, what’s with you? Is the mid-day frizz fest some kind of farkakte passive-aggressive bid for attention? Or is it actual aggression—are you fighting for dominance? Is my head a battleground, Jew Fro v. Afro, Jets v. Sharks?
When you’re a Jew,
You’re a Jew all the way
From your first frizzy hair
To your last holy day.
Look, you’ve seen West Side Story with me enough times to know that this does not end well. And if you have seen me in the mirror at the end of the day over the past week or so, you probably already realize this, so what’s the deal, Jew Fro? You are not Old World enough to be able to pull off that special brand of cranky schwarzophobia, and any way, it seems a little late in life for that to be surfacing.
Tell me what gives, because this meshugass must end, and it must end soon. This is all about teamwork, Jew Fro. Put aside the issues you have working with the afro; do it via montage if you must.
I don’t care how you do it, really. Just…just do it.
Thanks for the offer to make me a vampire. It’s obviously a great honor to be chosen; I assume that out of all of the candidates in downtown Oakland at 3am, I was the closest.
When I said, “Let me think about it,” I meant it. I really did go home to think about it, and I’ve decided—yeah, like, okay. Sure. I could totally be a vampire. I mean, I’ve been human for a while and that doesn’t seem like the most winning option of the three I currently have (those being life, death, undeath). But before I let you sink the couple teeth you still have into my neck and let you drain my life (will that hurt or just be sexy vampire fun time—you know what? I can still smell you, so never mind about the sexy part), I just have a couple of questions and minor concerns.
First of all, what kind of vampire would I be? Are we talking Buffy vamps—I lose my soul, get all bumpy, get slain by some superpowered hottie? Or Charlaine Harris—I’m me, only with fangs and an insatiable thirst for melodrama and fucking everything that moves? Or a Stephenie Meyer vampire—who sparkles, stalks underage girls, and was created by somebody who can’t even spell her first name? Because, while I can make either of the first two work for me, if it’s the latter, I’m out. But you know, come to think of it, you don’t sparkle. I don’t think you even bathe. So I guess we are good on that count.
Second: As a vampire, do I automatically get awesome acrobatic and fighting skills? Or do I actually have to, like, train for them?
Third: Which asshole consulted on Underworld?
Okay, I guess I got off track with that one. Where was I—Oh, yes. Okay.
In some books, when people turn into vampires part of the process is that the body releases all of its fluids and fecal matter. So I should totally eat a light lunch the day I see you again, right?
Are all vampires mysteriously wealthy (in which case, I assume you were spare changing for fun)? Is there a bank I will be able to draw from, like a bloodsucker credit union (must be a vampire or somebody who likes vampires—but no fucking werewolves—to qualify)? Or do I build up a base of wealth by ripping off my victims? Do we at least have some pawn shop owners and fences in our ranks? Also, do we just leave exsanguinated bodies in various alleys or is there some kind of mechanism in place for that?
Will my cat hate me?
Can I still gain or lose weight, or am I stuck like this forever? What about tattoos? Hair? Fingernails? Are the fangs actually a whole new set of teeth that grow down, or do my existing teeth just extend?
Will I still be able to drink whiskey?
I really can’t accept your offer of eternal life and damnation without having these questions answered to my satisfaction, so I hope you can get back to me on these very soon.
Honestly, I don’t know where to start. I guess the first thing is, I never bothered to name you, for reasons that will become clear. When I yell at you I just call you “Horse,” and if you were yearning for a name, you must be very disappointed. I’m sorry for that.
Also, I worry about your hearing. I’m constantly shooting my rifle right by your head, and I can only imagine how startling, unpleasant, and damaging that is, especially for the more sensitive areas of your head. I really appreciate the fact that you don’t toss me whenever I decide to hunt coyotes, but then I figure you are deaf by now.
But maybe not, because I also have to apologize for accidentally shooting you when I was trying to kill that goddamn coyote who kept eluding me. Seriously, that really bummed me out. It will relieve you to know that you didn’t die in vain. I got the coyote, and I sold parts of you so I could afford some more maps. And then a new you appeared, so I assume that fixed your hearing, at least temporarily.
While I’m at it, I should also apologize for letting you get stolen. I knew that guy was going to pull me off and take you. I just didn’t shoot him fast enough. I did take care of that eventually, but you must be thinking I just don’t care about you. And I do, especially when you are that pretty chestnut color. Less so when you come back kinda ugly. I’m shallow like that. Also, I would like to point out that I didn’t accidentally shoot you when you were taken. That time, anyway. So, yay.
I guess I’m also sorry that I let those wolves kill you when I was ripping off the corpses of those people I failed to save. I was careless, probably because I was stoned that day. And, like, every time I play RDR. So, yeah.
I suppose being stoned also accounts for all those times I fell off cliffs and into water. And off those train tracks that one time.
There’s probably some other stuff I don’t remember. I’m sorry for that, too.
Um. Yeah. Don’t stop being awesome.
Dear Blue Polar Bear Pajama Pants,
I love you. I mean, I really love you. I have for a long time.
You were just hanging there in a Gap store over ten years ago, and a woman in whom I was interested pulled you right off the hanger and said, “You need to have these.” I knew immediately she was right. Seriously, from the moment I saw you, it was obvious we were meant to be together.
You’ve been my favorite sick day pajama pants, my favorite cuddle day pajama pants, my favorite pajama pants to put on the morning after bringing somebody home because you inevitably get a giggle from the women who only ever see me in jeans. Apparently I don’t strike them as as the Blue Polar Bear Pajama Pants type.
You are comfortable, soft, faded from your original dark blue background after years of wearing and washing. You have polar bears on you. Let me repeat that. You have polar bears on you. Light blue ones. I love them.
But, Blue Polar Bear Pajama Pants, you are falling apart. You have virtually no structural integrity left. You tear when I so much as look at you funny, and that’s making me so very, very sad. You are so worn that I wonder if even sewing you back together would work (and by that I mean, having somebody who knows what they are doing sew you back together; the only thing I can do well with a needle and thread is stab myself with the needle).
So I am thinking, maybe it’s time to retire you. Maybe it’s time to put you in the back of my bottom dresser drawer (the one with the rest of my lesser pajama pants), and stop hoping I can get one more comfy night without you falling right off of me.
Maybe I’m not ready yet, Blue Polar Bear Pajama Pants. But I have to start coming to terms, somehow. In the mean time, hang on. I mean, literally. I wear you where other people can see me.
Dear Battlestar Galactica,
I guess the first thing I should say is that I frakkin’ miss you. I miss you and I want you back. I know you had to end things, and I can forgive you for that, and even the cheap shot you threw at me as you left. But I miss you, and I just can’t go on like this.
I can’t keep jumping into these rebound relationships. They aren’t satisfying, they aren’t healthy. Caprica lasted the longest, but I think Caprica and I both know that I’m just looking for you in very virtual corner, in every proto-cylon. I’m looking for Starbuck, Adama, and Tigh. I am looking for real drama, morally questionable presidents, hot blond hallucinations, inexplicable obsessions with “All Along the Watchtower.” No amount of Eric Stoltz can really match all of that–and ultimately, Caprica knows it, even if that is a fact it prefers not to admit.
I feel so vulnerable writing this to you. But I just can’t help it. BSG, come back to me. I love you.