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Dear Editor,

I know you have tried very hard to set me up with one of these fine, talented, and handsome yet more-often-times distancely challenged men, in reference to me - but I have to come clean - I have to be honest....I still have the hots for "boyfriend." It's true! Mom says, "he's a veerdo!" (she's russian). Friends say, "remember the kisslessness!" (they're gay). And my cat says, ""meow!" at the butt crack of dawn (which means feed me) and is no help whatever. It's weird with "boyfriend." I still feel the "hots" for him, and he seems to feel the same, but he's all like, "I'm moving away in a week, we have to be practical about this, get a grip woman!" And I'm all, not paying attention to his silliloque about his misadventures of drugged-out trips with his friend from college that no one else can stand.  I'm just sitting there in the pub wondering, as the bartender pours me another perfect Guinness with a shamrock in its creamy head, does this guy know how I'm totally not listening to his story about being in the pod with Oleg at the rave party, and really just mesmerized by his fine ivory-skinned hands and perfect cheekbones so divinely cropped by his longish sideburnes that he often admits are too shaggy, but which I love? And he didn't make me feel bad because I wept after he described the synopsis of the movie Mulhollland Drive, which when I hear always makes me say in a strange voice, "the spice," even though I know it's a line from his other movie with a skinny Sting in it. He was all, "Yeah, when you cry like that it makes me think other people are looking at us and wondering what an asshole I am, like, that's the asshole boyfriend that's breaking up with her." And I'm all like, I know how the hair on your chest swirls like a whirlwind, and I'm like, I know how warm your neck feels when I nuzzle my head into it before my train comes and you have to run away as though it's your train that's coming ... And then I play my burnt Liz Phair CD and weep to myself and think - he's the one that got away. And I don't care who saw me weep on the platform. In fact I hope they thought sweetly of me, because I think I look cute when I cry. My chin does this wrinkled up thing. And then I thought, at least he's not one of those guys that just wants to sleep with talented writers because then I'd be fucked! For, what if you are no good at the thing which you thought you are are best at in the world? Writing? Then surely the one you adore would not adore you in turn. I don't know what to do. I might have to resort to Internet dating. Although your escorts sometimes seem enticing ... But I'm ridiculously pretty with long hair, that last time I checked, reached and also got stuck in my butt crack.  :-o  I think I want to be in love. My friend saw you at a Denny's in Jersey and said that you looked like you knew what I should do, by the way you ate your salami sandwich.

Gopy Darling

P.S. Steve Delahoyde is the cutest and sweetest of them all. What are his digits? But only give them to me if you think I might make "boyfriend" jealous . . . 


Okay, this time I'm not drunk. I really liked what you wrote about Bryce Newhart regarding his revision of Window Mouth, I found it terribly endearing. I once wrote this poem for him - in it, he is the bird, and I am the pig. (For painfully obvious reasons) and now that
he's going to persue his dream of continuing to be the wonderfully tortured and adorable writer that he is, I want you to publish this because it was his favourite of all my gayer than gay gayerson poems. And if you don't I'm going to light stinky farty cherry bombs in the vestibule of your appartment building, till you do...smell ya later!

A nightingale tethered with tea leaves lay chirping and burping beer under an eavsdropping beech tree. A fumbling paunch piglet rolled round there quite sniffing, with snorting grandeur and her trapezoid dripping, 

"I say may I squat here and ruffle your feathers for I smell word truffles and chocolate sauce letters?" 

He thought for a moment and pondered the question and fondled in his mind her cowlick suggestion. 

"It tis a fine jesture but what makes you so sure you'll stumble upon there your little pig treasure?" 

She measured the moonbeams on both hands one raised, eyes sparkling with mischievous mud puddle gazes, declaring in shrill giggling snorts that she gave.

"T'matters not what I find, but the snuff there instead!"


Dear Gopy, 

I am reduced to speechlessness thanks to that poem. I do not have Mr. Delahoyde's phone number. I recently saw that movie you mentioned - I did not love it. But I did go to the same college as Liz Phair, and get this: there was this semi-famous off-campus house which seemed to always have the hot/artsy-type senior ladies living in it, and back when I was there it was called Blue House, because it's a big blue house, and apparently Liz Phair lived there the year I was a freshman (I remember going to a party there in early September, and I may have gazed upon her though I wouldn't have known who she was of course) -- so all through my college years, Blue House was called Blue House. But recently I found out that Blue House has been popularly rechristened Liz Phair House, which I think is in ridiculous taste for obvious reasons regarding tradition and its tainting. And so, perhaps because of this, I would suggest that you do whatever it takes to follow Boyfriend wherever he goes, be kind and caring, submit yourself to his desires, etc. This is one of the true paths to happiness, dearie: submission to another. Another is to date talented writers. You want Bryce's e-mail address? Also, and this may be entirely unrelated, but next time you send a letter, think about running spell check before hitting send. I think I got most of the errors but you must have been really drunk. Your spelling was sloshed. 


PS. Are you Canadian?

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