We Have A Lucy, Don’t We?
(via)
Monica’s Letters
“I feel disposable, used and insignificant.”
Letters of Note posted a link to the many documents involved in the Clinton-Lewinsky scandal. The “Handsome,” to whom Miss Lewinsky writes, is none other than Slick Willy himself. Reading them, I think, lends the situation a certain humanity.
Dear Serial Killer
A man writes letters to serial killers, posing as a ten year old, asking for advice on whether he should drop out of school. The serial killers respond.
(via kottke, boing boing)
Paris, I Love You But You’re Bringing Me Down
So there is this guy, Rosecrans Baldwin–yep, you read it right, the dude’s name is Rosecrans–who is currently an American living in Paris. Naturally, he is a sardonic, self-deprecating writer with a well-tuned clever muscle (sounds dirty, doesn’t it). It’s very pomo. He also happens to be funny as hell:
No one hears you when you say you’re sick of Paris. Sick of Paris: three words that make sense to people separately, but not in sequence. And they’re right—what am I talking about? What about champagne for sale in gas stations? And aisles dedicated to yogurt in grocery stores? And grocery stores that only sell frozen food of such high quality that, when reheated, it beats most bistro meals? And my boss and his thousand Lacoste shirts in every color? And all the gossip and insights: how French men go to pieces when they’re dumped; how Parisian girls won’t sleep with you unless you have permanent residency papers. And the white morning sunshine in Place de la Concorde, and its slow wheel of drivers, and me on my bike. And homeless men spreading out a picnic on a Metro platform. And Techtonik kids.
via kottke
a letter from a john
Susannah Breslin asked one of the men who wrote a letter from a john why he wrote it. He responded.
The writing experience was cathartic for so many reasons. The facts of the matter matter to me in such a profound manner. I love(d) the mother of my beautiful daughter, but I had such intense revulsion that she shared our crazy love/sex with someone else that I had nothing other than the “nuclear” option available to me. While writing the letter to you, I experienced a range of emotions I haven’t felt in almost a decade: achingly deep love, disloyalty, loss, freedom, puppy love, freedom… in a sort of linear fashion. I even had a Jenny and Forrest reunion synapse trigger while writing my letter. Although you may have picked up my closet romantic self in the letter, Jenny and Forrest will not be reuniting in an antebellum estate anytime soon. And, yes, I did find writing about my Czech beauty very titillating. I was able to transport myself to another time, carefree and full of wanderlust. I saw the room, I saw her body, and I felt, f-e-l-t, the excitement I experienced. It was wonderful, and as I sit here writing this reply, I feel nothing of the sort. (Too bad.) This is near-clinical, but not quite.
