letting you read my mail again.

Dear Beer,

I’m tired of your trickery. I can have three or four beers on a weekend evening and be completely fine the next day, but if I try and have a couple of beers on a Tuesday night you make me feel absolutely horrible the next day. It doesn’t really seem fair. How do you know when it’s the weekend?

Love,
Pamie

[db]

Dear NBC,

I don’t understand what is happening to your programming department. Thursday used to be “Must See TV.” Now it’s like, “Must Sit Through These.” What’s with the cartoon? Do you have any idea how boring it is to watch Friends and then wait an hour and a half to see ER? And is the 10th Kingdom over yet? Because I haven’t been able to watch your network for like, two weeks now.

Love,
Pamie

[db]

Dear Mouth,

Could you just shut up for a second and let Eyes do their job before you go yapping around? Sometimes you start your gabbing before the coast is clear. YOU’RE RUINING EVERYTHING!

Love,
Pamie

[db]

Dear Head,

Shhh. Shhh… Pamie’s sorry she got so upset. It was just a bad dream. It’s okay. Go back to sleep. Shhh.

Love,
Pamie

[db]

Dear Billy Blanks (TM),

Do you have to start doing Subway commercials now? I already feel bad that I haven’t visited your video land in a good three weeks. Does it help if I tell you I lost ten pounds anyway? Your roundhouse kicks ain’t got nothin’ on the heartbreak diet.

Love,
Pamie

[db]

Dear Mom,

Don’t worry about the weekend in Lake Charles. I know your heart was in the right place. I love you.

Love,
Pamie

[db]

Dear Jim Beam,

I blame you for many things over the past weekend. Just so you know. A lawsuit may be pending.

Love,
Pamie

[db]

Dear Billy Corgan,

I thought you figured out that people didn’t prefer your whiny-screaming to your real singing. Two weeks ago I heard your new “song” and I actually screamed, “Shut up, Billy!” and turned off the radio. Please listen to Siamese Dream again and try and figure out what happened.

Love,
Pamie

[db]

Dear Johnny Depp,

Sometimes being a fan is painful. I now refuse to see your work that involves lowering my set of standards. So, when I go and see The Ninth Gate soon, please don’t tell anyone. Also I’d like you to know that I’ve figured out how it works:

Johnny Depp + goatee/mustache= bad movie
Johnny Depp + clean baby face= good movie

Disregard Donnie Brasco from the above equation, as you were struggling with both forms of facial hair.

Love,
Pamie

[db]

Dear John Travolta,

I am writing you in advance to tell you I will not be attending your Dianetics movie. Ask Johnny Depp to explain about fans and pain. And I figured out your equation:

John Travolta + dancing= good movie
John Travolta – dancing= bad movie

Disregard Michael and Staying Alive from above equation, please.

Love,
Pamie

[db]

Dear Ricky Martin,

I’m so over you. I never heard back from you and then you got all high and mighty and your head just flips around a lot now and I just can’t take it anymore. You never really beat Eric in that whole comparison anyway, so don’t think I’m losing any sleep over you.

Love,
Pamie

[db]

Dear Portishead, Radiohead, Fiona Apple, The Cure’s new song, et. al.,

You’re killing me softly with your songs. Seriously. I can’t take it anymore, and now I just listen to Kittie all day long. Hope you understand.

Love,
Pamie

[db]

Dear Guns N’ Roses,

Did you have to make me want to start listening to Appetite for Destruction right now? I’m trying to make a good impression here and for some reason I keep humming “Mr. Brownstone.”

Love,
Pamie

[db]

Dear Work,

Just stop. Okay? Just stop. For like, two seconds or something. Just stop and shut up and be quiet for like one day or something so I can breathe, okay? Just quit piling up and changing deadlines and making me feel swamped, okay? Just go get some coffee or something and leave me alone. Please. I’m begging you. Really. Not kidding here.

No Love,
Pamie

[db]

Dear Car,

Do you think you could clean yourself up a bit or something? There’s people coming over and I’ve got to drive around and stuff and there are clothes in the back seat from a show I did in March of last year. One full year of crap back there that I haven’t cleaned out. Do you think you could get rid of the baby carriage in the trunk, as I think we’ve been done with that prop since October? Do you think that maybe you could find all of the bits of food and stuff in the seats and just throw them away? You sit around all day long and you never pick up after yourself.

Love,
Pamie

[db]

Dear Taylor and Cal,

It’s time to get a job. If you don’t want to get a job, then you’d better find a way to stop tracking kitty litter all over the bathroom floor. It clumps to my wet toes after a shower, and the icky feeling doesn’t leave for hours.

Love,
Pamie

[db]

Dear N*Sync,

I refuse to think that there’s even a remote possibility that I could even slightly maybe sorta like one of your songs. Having said that, I’ll have to ask you to stop playing that “Bye Bye Bye” song on the radio immediately. I can’t control what it does to my hips and I think it’s really, really, really, really, really wrong. And the other day when the song came on the alarm radio and I dreamt that I was at one of your concerts? I want my hour of REM back, please.

Anti-Love,
Pamie

[db]

Dear Weezer,

I miss you.

Love,
Pamie

[db]

Dear Thighs,

What’s up with you smacking into the footboard every single evening? It doesn’t move. It’s in the same place night after night. I really don’t enjoy having purple circles on my skin. Could you try and move in a different direction or something? Try to avoid the footboard corner at least one damn night of the month?

Thanks in advance.

Love,
Pamie