The following is part of the “Love, Me” project, the brainbaby of this blogger, who asked a bunch of nerds to write love letters to ourselves. I’m generally pretty good at the stamped-sent-I-love-you-I-miss-you thing (see, for example, July 2007, when I sent a birthday candle and a match tied together with piece of ribbon in an envelope filled with dried flower petals across this gray nation, which was totes heart-melty even though I tried this again about six months later with less success), but if I saw myself in a bar I definitely would not hit on me because I don’t hit on dudes in wife-beaters, so this shit was not easy.
When I was asked to write this letter, I immediately thought of all the 14-carat things I could say about you, like, for instance:
Despite your resemblance to opalescent 80′s icon Molly Ringwald, your ass is black, which I know because my one black friend said that your junk trunk is filled with sweet meat, which I’m pretty sure is his way of expressing that your butt has some complimentary cognitive dissonance with the rest of your casper self.
I was also going to mention something about the arch of your foot, which really compliments your gams when you wear Lucite heels before realizing that I was thinking about Phoebe Price and that you actually have ciabatta feet and cankles. At this point, I ran out of positivities to gift besides the fact that you have managed to avoid the consequences of your bad behavior for most of your 26 years, but then I remembered that you have no job, no girlfriend, and your mom pays your cell phone bill, so even if you’ve never gotten arrested, you’re still sort of a loser.
Upon realizing that this love letter was going to have the emotional heft of a Facebook poke, I decided to consult someone who knows you better than you know yourself: your twin sister, B—. The following is a transcript of that conversation….
K: sup boo?
B: get a job. leave me alone.
K: chill, my brother, just help me for a sec.
B: two minutes. that’s all.
K: ok. ima ask you some questions. just answer. don’t question.
B: two minutes.
K: what is katie good at?
B: huh? what’s this third person shit?
K: just go with me here.
B: fine. but i’m prolly not the best person to ask. bitch owes me $30.
K: $30? why?
B: i sold her running tights.
K: so she runs?
B: no, she walks around town in her tights so people think she runs.
K: that’s very clever.
B: yeah, she’s clever at being lazy. she paid me to do her job for her for four
K: look at that entrepreneurial spirit!
B: but when i quit she stopped turning shit in and returning their calls.
K: yeah, that sucked. you should at least have given her two weeks notice. or
found a replacement. now she doesn’t have any references.
B: i see wal-mart greeter in her future.
K: and you call yourself family. i’m telling mom.
At this point, B— gets distracted and I am left waiting from 12:13 to 12:25, a period of time I spend designing an emoticon to represent “Bish, plz. That ain’t my baby.”
K: what has katie done that impresses you?
B: hmm. didn’t she seduce a professor once?
B: oh, right. it was her boss. and she got fired.
K: laid off.
K: so basically, you’re saying that she’s good with ladies.
B: ask the mime.
K: let’s not talk about that.
B: actually, let’s do talk about that. what’s worse, that she was a mime or that she
K: dude. she was cute.
B: she had a locker.
K: right. so katie is sort of a mentor.
B: yr an asshole.
K: moving on. what do you like about katie?
B: she has pretty eyes. they look just like mine
So there you have it. Big ass and blue eyes. Granted, both of your good qualities are more gene-meshing leftovers than skills you’ve actually had to cultivate, but I see great things in your future. You may have surpassed the age cap for child stars, but you still get carded for your Pall Malls. Keep wearing those running tights and it’s only a matter of time until a dad-ready fag sees you on the street and thinks, “Now, that’s the kind of girl I want gestating my babies.” Surrogate city, my friend. Surrogate city.
The other lovers: