What Possessed Me

i like you better than everything in the sky

Dearest Fauxhawk,

We met three years ago today.

I walked into the bar, looked at you, and said, Hot damn. With my inside voice.

You said, "If I gave you two million dollars, would you tell the sweet Thai waiter to go back to motherfucking China?"

I agonized, thinking I could share the two million with the waiter so he'd never have to wait tables at a shitty Thai restaurant again. But I couldn't do it. And you were short on cash anyway.

I ate duck and you ate beef.
I drank Jameson and you drank seltzer.
I was wearing the pants you hate. You were wearing the shirt I love.

I thought, This boy is demented and funny and I bet he smells good.
You thought, This girl gets really worked up about circumcision.

And that was that. (Give or take some gut-wrenching but necessary drama).

Dearest boy, I like you better than everything in the sky. And under the sky, for that matter.

With love and squalor,
Your P.

P.S. Sorry about all the means things I've said about the fucking cats.


Photograph via delete the adjectives.

Dear Bootcamp People With No Souls:

You may be surprised to learn that Fat Camp is for people who need to get in shape. Some of us spent the winter eating Peppermint Patties (not our faults – it was cold and depressing outside) and have a policy of not moving more than is strictly necessary (energy-saving measure – good for the environment).

Fat Camp is not for you, Skinny Bitches snickering in the back. Nor is Fat Camp for you, Bald Showoffy Douchebag. It is not for you because you are quick to remind us (in your shrill, self-satisfied little way) that you totally won’t be sore tomorrow because you work out every day, sometimes twice a day! The rest of us will struggle to lift ourselves up from the couch over the next three days, while you run ten miles every morning in your Lulu Lemon yoga ensembles.

Bald Douchebag: You seem to think that your penis will fall off if you’re not first all the time. This is Fat Camp, not the Olympic trials. And if you tell me to “hussle” ever again while I’m hanging back with the fat girl puking into her pocket, I will cut you.

Skinny Bitches: I saw you laughing at my esteemed colleague from Pakistan after he keeled over from exhaustion. OK, I’ll admit that it was sort of funny the way he went splat, but you need to learn to laugh with your inside voices, because the last thing that kid needs is the entire cast of Mean Girls making him feel like a total loser. See above re: cutting.

Scampy McScamperson: You are borderline annoying and I want you to know that I have my eye on you. All the scampering needs to stop – especially after Indian sprints. For the love of God, show some respect and at least pretend to be tired.

Love ya bunches! Kisses!

P.

P.S. Who’s up for fifty cent beers after class?
P.P.S. I’ll totally pay!
P.P.P.S. OK, totally, next time for sure.

Growing Hostility; Shrinking Thighs

Dear Bootcamp Girls Who Weigh 87 Pounds But Still Think They’re Fat:

Fuck OFF.

Love,
P.

P.S. Is that mean?
P.P.S. Do you still like me?
P.P.P.S Because I really want you to like me.


Photograph from ffffound with thanks.