Dear Stretch-the-truth-to-fit-the-climate: Recently I have been throwing up. A lot. I work at a public art gallery and I think it might have something to do with the various administraitors (sic). What should I?
Dear Molly Ringwald: Mostly I just go around singing hip-hop in my head, hoping that the workday will end in screeching tires, a smoke-show, and
Dear Horrible Swelling:
Dear Ministrations of Uncoupling: Ever since Ferguson, I get the feeling that cops are pointing their guns at me. How can I be sure?
Dear Elastic Waistband: Since you gone I have taken to the bottle. Since you went, I have had to walk to the Bulk Barn. Since you.
Dear Tears of a Clown: Not until Nancy Reagan.
Dear Hotel-in-a-handbag: Unsubscribe/See all your alerts.
Dear Manga-junkie: Who’s the old guy in all those photos with you? And why do you resemble the “It’s Gone Forever” girl? And who took the pictures? And why am I just hearing about this? And I feel like I met you somewhere? And don’t you know me? You know me. You.
Dear For-fuck’s-sake: Okono Miyaki. It of the dancing egg flakes. A hard rain burns the skin.
Dear Tulsa Tampons: I dreamed a gang of horrid killers were chasing me through a BMX maze. I launched a fat air and for a second, the only time since my birth, I was flying. From somewhere came the tinny music of a Blackpool dancehall. And the smell of fried fish. Suddenly, a woman’s breast struck me in the face. “Relax,” I said to the gathering clouds of evening, “you can land this.”