The Open Letters Campaign

That's right, another dumb project to keep me from returning to work. The Open Letters Campaign is designed to give everyone out there a piece of the Flannel Diaries action. And since I just got a semi-fan letter (okay, just a letter, so sue me), we'll start with her. Contestant #1, get your ass down here!

An Open Letter to Stacy:

Dear Stacy:

That's right, Stace, I'm talking to you. Everyone else can go sod off.

You're great. You're aces, Stacy kid. You're a gentlewoman and a scholar. I thought I was da' bomb until I met you, and then I was forced to crawl back under my rock of shame and wither away to the pathetic nothingness I've been thus far clever enough to hide from the rest of the world. No really, I mean it. I know you're laughing right now and covering your face in embarassment, but listen girlfriend, get those hands away from that face and let your proud visage shine for the rest of the world to see.

Since we're talking, Stace, let me tell you a little bit about my graduate studies as of late. I just turned in an American lit paper and am beginning to think it might not even be worth the paper it's printed on. I know you say that a lot, but then your papers come back clean, sparkling and with an A and a smiley-face sticker on the front, whilst mine...well, I'm lucky if they even come back at all. On one I found a poison control sticker. On another, the teacher drew a picture of me sniffing glue and wrote beneath it: "I want you to stop doing this."

Well, that's all pie in the sky. (Do you have any glue?)

I know you fawn over my behind my back. It's okay. Lots of women are intimidated by my good looks. You can be too. I remember the first day we met, and how befuddled and out-of-sorts you were around me:

Stace: Hi, I'm Stacie Proovin. How are you?
Me: Yes, I do have a beautiful behind, thank you for commenting.
Stace: Huh?

Ah, the memories will last us a lifetime. Remember those hot summer nights, Stace? You and me under the slowly rotting sycamore along the banks of the refuse-saturated Kishwaukee River? Talking poetry, politics and propaganda? Long, slow sips from a can of Malt .45 Liquor? Slow drags off of a Phillies blunt? The possum that bit you on the leg and all I did was laugh? (Hey, I never said I was brave)

Well, here's what I want you to do, Stace. You print this letter out, and you stick it on your refrigerator door. And every time your husband comes home, or the kids you may or may not have in the future come clamboring for attention, or when the IRS man comes banging down your door at tax time, you haul out that letter and thrust it in your face and you yell at them: "Look here! Gregg thinks I'm awesome! If that isn't proof, tell me, just what is?"

And we all know what they'll say. "Gregg who?"

Sincerely yours,

gjl