"Dear Interstate and Lombard Fred Meyer's Fukk Butt"

[dated May 9]

I didn't mean to end our conversation on Monday so abruptly. I'd like to clear up the confusion and offer you my side of the story in with the hope you will understand where I was coming from.

You got out of your car that was parked next to mine. You have an awesome big truck.

I walked toward the store, ahead of you and your buddy. You said, "Damn, you're kinda tall. Aint you?"

As in most of my everyday conversations, I had to stifle my occasional Oppositional Defiance Disorder, which gives me an unshakable urge to respond to even the most normal questions with outrage and disgust. But out of respect and extreme grace, I did NOT answer back with, "Fuck you, Fukk Butt. assbuttnutsfuckshitragcumblast. I have gold toe socks and a lint roller to buy." I pretended not to hear you and continued to walk through the automatic doors.

Sensing my reluctance to strike up an engaging conversation, your accomplice observed, "She must be a man hater."

"I am going to give you a face lift with my back tire. zombiefuckcuntasshatetruck."

In real life, I picked up a basket. I have biodegradable kitten litter to buy.

You followed me to the greeting card section. And then to the soap aisle. And then, Fukk Face, you had the nonballs to say, "Yeah. A real man-hater. She just needs something from me and she'd change her mind"

"sonofamotherfuckingassballscuntdickshitdamnboobsbitchasstricksuckBALLS"

There, we parted ways. You to produce, me to home furnishings.

Apologies, Fukk Butt, my ODD seemed to have left me with nothing to say in Real Life. What I meant to say was, "DRINK. BLEACH. I need jillshit from you. In fact, I already got laid-- twice-- this morning by a real man who sings me songs and shares the sports page and writes me lub notes in after dinner mints. I am NOT a man hater because I don't blush at your fucking nar nar comments. I am NOT a man hater because I won't talk to you. I won't talk to you because I'm too enraged that the adrenaline made me unable to speak. I'm not a man hater. I just hate males who aren't real men. And you have shit for a dick. Fuck off."

Shove a fork in your bottom,

Anonymous

"ASSbury park"

[Sent april 16. We've been busy, okay? -- BfM]

new jersey really is as shitty as people say it is. i figured it was something like british people's teeth where it's not THAT bad, even out in the sticksville nowheres. but ner jersey is just a wasteland. factories and suburbs that look like ikea and domino's had babies all over a big marsh. doesn't help that it's raining a lot and thus i'm STUCK HERE where tgifriday's is the cheapest place to drink. how can a place be so close to a big, awesome city and not have some kind of residual coolness fallout? liek nuclear winter of awesome. no. not in jersey. fuck you and your stepford suburbs, jersey. tehre are some real mansions out here. wall street types who will commute for hours just to keep their kids in safe places. it just radiates anxiety.

while i'm at it, fuck airports. tey're depressing places of hell where all the things you dont want to thinkabout come out especially when you're travelling alone and feeling pretty small anyway. do i want to think about all my self-doubt in sky harbor? NO. what about exes in O'Hare? NO. and now i'm in newark wondering why the hell i'm thinking about moving away from my amazing friends -- a new family, really...i love these people -- to a big city with no trees and no chance of me owning a dog. I DON'T WANT TO DEAL WITH THIS IN AN AIRPORT. STOP RAINING ALREADY, FUCKING CLOUDS!/ If this were the pacific northwest of the amazon basin or somewhere, this wouldn't be such a big deal. but no. no no. its time for fridays!

and GET TEH HINT FACE. I'm TOO FUCKING OLD FOR ACNE.

Inaugural camera phone picture

The sticky reads: "I think people in relationships are hot."

Kudos to the sender for going all multimedia on us.

This is why.

Many a wise woman or man has observed that the internet needs a breathalyzer.

Not anymore.

All those late-night, hopelessly emo posts you might have made to your blog? Now they can go here. Anonymously.

Thinking about IMing your ex after you put away that magnum of cheap cabernet? Don't do it! Send that IM to us instead.

Did you compose a raving email to the former friend who stole your ladyfriend away? Don't stir up drama by sending it straight to the guilty party. Send it to us instead; here, the whole world can sympathize, and you can remain safely unknown, unseen, behind the pretty curtain of internet anonymity.

You know you've done it. You know you'll do it again. Typing while drunk.

It's a dangerous interweb out there. We're here to make it a little safer.