Tag Archives: personal letter

Dear Googlers: Some Letters to Some People I’ve Never Met (Probably)

5 Oct

Dear Googlers Who Found My Blog Using the Search Terms “why did joan crawford not leave more to her twins?”:

I’m not sure.  If Mommie Dearest can be believed, she didn’t really like children and only had them for the publicity.  But I think her real inner life was probably more complicated than that.  I tend to see the glass half full and choose to believe she genuinely loved her children but couldn’t express herself very well in this aspect of her life because 1. she was in Hollywood too long; 2. She was naturally kind of a cold, domineering person; and 3. Her kids were probably brats anyway.

I doubt any of this is useful.  I wonder about Joan Crawford and her children, too.

Yours inquisitively,

PS How much did she even leave to them?  Is this a relative thing, like my mom leaving me $15,000 would be a big deal whereas their mom leaving them the same would be an insult?


Dear Googlers Who Found My Blog Using the Search Terms “star trek voyager queen arachnia iphone 4s case”:

If you find this item, which I hope against hope that you do, will you check and see if they have one for Motorola Droid Razr, as well?  Because that would be the most marvelous thing ever.

Thanks a lot and best of luck,

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Hey Gurrrrrrrrl! It’s your inbox!

19 Sep

Hey gurrrrrl!

It’s your inbox!

I hate to be a downer, but I don’t see you as often as I’d like. Usually you check me quickly from your phone since your computer died and you have to use Tish’s all the time. She doesn’t mind, you know. She never uses it. She prefers looking at the internet on her phone. But you don’t. You like using a computer. Haha! You would actually prefer a desktop! You’re kind of a fuddy duddy.

OMG! I just said fuddy duddy. How does an email inbox even know a gay ass colloquialism like that! And now I’m being un-PC. Ugh! This is what happens to me when you don’t clean me out for months on end: I get all clogged and reclusive and think in offensive phrases.

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Adventures in Teaching: An Email I Receive Daily

16 May

Dear Asshole Who’s Ruining My Child’s Future,

Hi, I’m a parent of a student who’s not doing well in your class.  I just now checked Parent Portal one day from when school is out to make sure my child will be able to raise his 48% to a 70% in 24 hours.  I see that he does not have a grade for a test he should have taken in February.  You are screwing me around, obviously, because I checked the attendance records, and he was there that day.  WTF are you doing?  It’s probably not his fault at all that he didn’t come in and finish a test with you, and I shouldn’t be thanking you for not putting it in as a 0.

Best wishes,
Concerned Parent

PS I’m not going to address anything you said in your last email to me because that would mean my child would have to take responsibility for being a piss-poor student.  I will continue hoping that a phantom 100-point test will raise him to not an F instead of assuring you that he will be studying for his 120-point final exam or asking if he can still redo parts of his 200-point project you said he did a shitty job on.

A Dear John Letter to Patty Hewes

22 Mar

Dear Patty,

I thought I should let you know before you heard it through the grapevine.

“Don’t prolong this, Al. Just tell me.”

The rumors are true:  I’ve been cheating on you with another HBIC.

Who, you ask?  I’m not sure I should say anything more.  Of course, even if you wanted to do something about it, she’s way out in the Delta Quadrant–

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Dear Mid-1940s-and-After Joan Crawford

19 Jan

Dear Mid-1940s-and-After Joan Crawford,

I continue to reside under your spell, darling Joan.  Your considerable charm, grace, and beauty perenially dazzle me. 

I especially relish the way you hold your sneering mouth–with all its generously applied lipstick–and the way clothing drapes languidly on the hard curves of your frame–whether fitted satin gown or severe, huge-shouldered suit, it all looks about the same–totally feminine toughness. 

I absolutely revel in every slap you deliver to inferior little idiots who can’t keep their traps shut and in every taunting smile dancing in your adamantine eyes as you utter something deliciously acrimonious.

But we’ve gotta talk.

We’ve gotta talk about those eyebrows.

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