this and that and i’m sorry about all the body fluids talk again my life is sometimes gross

Woo-hoo! We have a release date for Notes to Boys (And Other Things I Shouldn’t Share in Public). [For newer readers who may not be familiar with some of Little Pam’s finest, I direct you to these older posts. Start here.]

The Polish translation of You Take It From Here was released earlier this year. I love how angsty the main characters look. “I live your life now. I stare at your future. I will use your skin care products even though they do not agree with my complexion. This is how I am best friend to you.”

I am writing on a lunch break because I miss you, dear readers of pamie.com. I hope you know that when I’m not writing here it is because I am always (no, really, always) writing something for you that sometimes you will see later. Though sometimes, unfortunately, you’ll never see it, but it’s always with the intent that it will get to be before your eyes or in your hands some day. Or on your iPads. Or in your Kindles. Or in your closet. Look in your closet! SURPRISE! HI! I AM WEARING ALL YOUR CLOTHES. Continue reading

Unsent Love Letters: It’s Different at Sixteen.

I have to admit I almost stopped after the last entry of my unsent love letters. Maybe it’s because I can see how awkward fifteen was, with the repeated unrequited love, and my completely obvious lack of experience. I was able to laugh at myself. But sixteen. I don’t know. I kind of still remember how it felt to be sixteen, and I still think maybe I had a point. Not a GOOD point. I know that. Sort of.

But I found this letter that… if you received this letter right now you could probably legally have me arrested.

His name has been erased to protect the innocent. Since some of you have told me the all-caps names can get confusing, I’ll just call him BOY. Since that’s probably the only word that was flashing in my head, a million times a second, every minute of every hour of every day of every week of every month of every bi-monthly period of every quarter of every semester of every year. Continue reading

“When all you wanted was to be wanted…”

I’m sad/relieved to tell you that we are rounding out the end of my essays/letters/diary entries from my fifteenth year. Actually, there are a few I didn’t share with you, mostly because they are way too listy or factual. I found a twelve-page essay about the time my Gifted class went to the Houston Fine Arts Museum, but I’m thinking that’s interesting to exactly zero people.

Let me just say that it would be way safer for me to reprint the art museum essay because it is gloriously Fifteen. In it you can tell I’ve just discovered how to sound so “over” everyone else, mostly due to the fact that I’ve finally found some “cool” music. I’m both listening to Jane’s Addiction and wearing a Jane’s Addiction shirt, and so, you know, I’m totally the awesomest one going to see some art.

But that’s really not embarrassing. It’s just what it was like to be young and on a field trip. These things I’m about to reprint? These are pretty embarrassing. Continue reading

100 Bottles of Rain on My Soul, 100 Bottles of Rain! [5 Feb 91]

Someone recently asked me if I make up any portion of Little Pam’s letters. I told her that, sadly, I do not. The look of shock and pity on her face… I won’t forget that.

So it’s probably a good thing I’ve gotten you accustomed to what I was like at fifteen before I found this unsent letter.

Okay, I have to assume it’s unsent. I want to assume it’s unsent. I’m going to at least pretend it’s unsent, and ask you to do the same. Because the truth is it’s a print-out from a dot-matrix printer, which means I wrote it on my Atari ST, which means I probably printed it twice, and gave one to the intended recipient. And then kept one physical copy for myself, because apparently I didn’t trust my computer’s hard drive enough to keep it safe. I’m sure it’s not because I did something smart like delete it. Honestly, the only thing that kept me from several embarrassing situations with that computer is that I was the only person in the house who knew how to use it.

Behold what might be the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever found from my past. Continue reading

chapters

All this rehashing of my high school years might be undoing years of therapy. I think I can safely blame Facebook for part of it. I’m new to it. Look, I had a Geocities account, whippersnappers. And I made it safely through both the Friendster and MySpace Administrations. But Facebook, that’s where you all are. So here I am finding people I haven’t heard from in decades at the same time I’m finding things I wrote back then… and possibly I’m trying to find meaning out of coincidence, but I don’t really believe in coincidences.

You know, this started with me wondering why I’ve hoarded all of these letters and notes, and then through Facebook I get back in touch with friends from my freshman year Latin class (For those of you who have seen the Little Pam fanpage, that’s four of us (Latin was held in a Spanish classroom by a guest teacher)). So the other day I found a six-page print-out of our inside jokes from Latin class. Why is there a six-page list of Latin class inside jokes? Because I made one. I also have one from seventh-grade gifted class, and a two-year high-school relationship. I’m listy. I hoard memories, remember? Continue reading

Little Pam Gets Personal

Oh, man. I don’t know what was going on with me the winter of my fifteenth year, but I was wrestling with some serious hormones.

20, Jan., 1991

Look at me. Look into my eyes. Let me look into you. Let me look beyond that mask you wear into your real feelings — your real fears, your real worries, your real joys, your real sorrows, your real wounds, your real pride, your real goodness, your real honesty, your real gentleness, your real peace, your real turmoil.

I’m truly worried I’m writing to someone who doesn’t actually exist.

And look, I know Alanis Morrisette cornered the market on songs that are really just lists, but as you can see here, I was way ahead of her. Continue reading

Notes from a “lump” of Houston Sheraton Town & Country Stationery, circa 1990 or 91

Just so you know, I got an email from 200-page boy, who got an email from one of you asking, “ARE YOU 200-PAGE LETTER DOUGLAS THAT PAMIE’S WRITING ABOUT?!?”

Small, small world. He was writing to let me know that he does, indeed, still have that letter. My first book! (Speaking of books, the galleys are in for Going in Circles. Are you someone fancy who writes blurbs/reviews and would like to give me a blurb/review? My publicist would love to send you an Advanced Reader Copy! Email me.)

I looked through my high school box of letters and stories, but couldn’t find another word about Homeroom Boy. It appears that saga quickly came and went. I did find this bundle of stationery from the Houston Town & Country hotel. It isn’t dated, but from what I’m talking about it’s sometime either at the end of my freshman year or maybe during the summer before my sophomore year. That makes me fourteen? Fifteen? I don’t know.

But I do know it’s mortifying and hilarious. Continue reading

20, Nov., 1990

Let me start by saying I am appreciative of all the attention Little Pam has received. It’s not just the emails, the letters and poems you’ve unearthed and started posting on your own websites, or even the Facebook fan page someone started for LP (seriously), it’s this shared feeling of mortification and anxiety I’m causing. One of my favorite sounds is hearing an audience go from slight horror to laughter. I might not get to hear your actual reactions, but I can tell by your comments and emails that I’m getting the desired effect.

So I might as well continue with the embarrassing confessions. Well, actually, let’s get the first letter out of the way. Yeah, just like last time, there’s more than one letter from November 20th. By the way, the entry titles are exactly how I dated these letters. All those commas aside, I don’t know why I thought it was so much cooler to date things like that back then. But you guys, I really thought it was awesome. Continue reading

13, Nov., 1990

It’s raining outside and I just finished my chores. Seems only fitting to dive back into my unsent teenage love letters.

When we last left Little Pam (LP), she had found a new fixation on which to Velcro her weepy heart. Five days later, she grabbed a red pen and then this happened.

13, Nov., 1990

Why are you doing this to me?

It is all your fault, you know. You have to be so damn beautiful. So damn perfect in any way. You made me fall in love with you. You knew what you were doing from the beginning, didn’t you? Don’t flash those innocent brown eyes at me, I know how well you manipulate.

I wonder if I imagined this boy reading this letter and being flattered by it. Because the weird coy hostility here isn’t working at all. LP’s got no game.

You’ve brainwashed me, that’s it.

You guys, I’m sure as soon as I was finished writing this — and oh, believe me when I say it’s a first draft and there are almost zero corrections. I’ll be sure to let you know whenever I changed my mind mid-genius — I’m sure as soon as I finished the last loopy scribble I flipped back to the first page and read the entire thing out loud. Because even then I knew that if it didn’t sound right, it didn’t read right. So I’m wondering how I performed this one. I bet I was so creepy, reading it with what I assumed was a sexy smirk. You know, I’m not one to advocate teenage sex or any kind of adult behavior among the little, but maybe if by fifteen I had at least an idea of what sex or sexiness was that wasn’t solely acquired by watching Cinemax in the middle of the night I’d have made, like 32% less of a fool of myself. Maybe. Maybe 12%.

But back to the cheeky sex kitten. I believe she was blushingly accusing her beloved of the amorous act of brainwashing. Continue reading

8 Nov 1990

I don’t even have an introduction to this because I’m just so… in awe of how much passionate heartache I was capable of feeling all by myself.

Oh, man. Here we go.

8 Nov 1990

It doesn’t matter what I try to do. Every time I try to do something you start to take control again. You creep into my soul — you’ve perfected it by now — and occupy my every thought, every move, every emotion.

What is this, five weeks later? You guys, I’m talking about a completely different boy here. A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT HUMAN BEING. Continue reading