| Dear Deceased Reclusive Author |
[Mar. 10th, 2005|05:08 pm] |
Personal troubles? Why sort though it yourself when you can let late and great though slightly maladjusted writers do it for you? It’s not like they have anything better to do.
Dear Deceased Reclusive Author,
Recently my girlfriend of five years, Stacy, has been acting rather strangely towards me. She has been coming home very late or sometimes not at all. She doesn’t wish to sleep in the same bed as me anymore and often smells of musk. She spends hours in the bathroom, applying various lotions and making long cell phone calls. I don’t know what to do. Please help me!
Signed,
Confused in Connecticut
Dear Confused,
While reading rather weird and ancient tomes hidden in the bowels of quant town libraries during a recent antiquarian tour though New England, I came upon the horrible and unutterable secret that your girlfriend is fucking cheating on you, dumbass. My deepest desire at this moment is that you take the next train to Providence so I can beat you senseless with your own shoes for not realizing this on your  own. I can count the number of times I’ve engaged in sexual relations on one hand and I still have more knowledge of the fairer sex’s motives than you. Although I must mention, my former wife said I was an excellently adequate lover and I was known to elect the strangest and more inhuman guttural cries from her throat on rare though spectacular occasions. Cthulhu fhtagn, indeed.
Luckily for you, I am in a rather happy mood right now (I found some bread on the sidewalk! Looks like I’m having dinner tonight!) , so I will not summon any physical manifestations of pure evil to your doorstep and/or write a rather sassy letter insulting you to the editor of your local newspaper. My best guess is that your girlfriend is engaging in an unholy union with some beast of the night, planning to bring about the doom of our entire species with her wanton gyrations. Or maybe it’s the neighbor. Have you thought about the neighbor?
If you do find out that she is miscegenating with some ancient evil, dowse her in gasoline whilst she sleeps and set her aflame. Then mingle her ashes with common housedirt and dump them in the ocean. Then go mad, absolutely raving mad, become addicted to opium, write a short manuscript about what you found and throw yourself out a window. But if it for some strange reason turns out to be the neighbor, just break up with her. Unless your neighbor is some sort of evil deity older than time, in which plan A still goes into affect.
Regards,
H. P. Lovecraft 
(Ec’h-Pi-El)
P.S.- The Necronomicon is made-up, you fucking halfwits. But all that other stuff I wrote was totally true.
Dear Deceased Reclusive Author,
I recently lost my cat in a horrible farm accident. Mr. Fluffles was my life. I don’t know how I will cope with his untimely death. Please help!
Signed,
Catless in Catasqua
To Whom It May Concern:
I am sorry that I was unable to read your letter due to the cat dander clinging to it, which I am terribly allergic to and I also could not listen to the dashing gentleman with the debonair hair who took it upon himself to memorize your fuzz-covered letter and offered to recite it for me, since he was of such a nice continence, given that it turned out I was the fibers of his suit caused my lungs to seize up and my skin to go all purple whereby he striped naked and took a shower, but the soap he used cause me to break out into a rash and so on and so forth, but I will try my very hardest to answer your question, though it is unbeknownst to me what it actually inquires. My father, who was an epidemiologist which in case you didn’t know is some who studies the distribution and determinants of health-related states or events in specified populations, and the application of this study to control of health problems, always told me that it would do me good if I put down my studybooks and venture outside to walk about and smell the wonderful flowers then in bloom and, being that I loved my father very very much, I listened to his advice, scurrying out the back door to stick my face into the first blossom I saw, which caused me to immediately fall to the ground and turn the same shade as the lovely lilac; posthaste the household took me to a doctor who burned the inside of my nostrils off, which caused me to scream and scream since it hurt like a bitch, saying that would solve my malady. It didn’t, so now I live in a cork lined suite in Paris, blinds always drawn, my fur coat always about me and never accepting visitors. What I’m trying to say is: Epidemiology is a fucking useless science.
I hope you found my letter helpful!
Affectionately,
Marcel Proust
Dear Deceased Reclusive Author,
I am trapped in a closet. Send help.
Signed,
Get me out of here
Dear G.M.O.H.,
I’m not dead, you goddamn idiots!
Not your buddy,
J.D. Salinger |
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