Hey Ponderous Lady:
I scent you a bunches of rose-petal dew. Did you get it?
Got em! They’re nice. So are you. I appreciate it.
Your note came just as I was shaving the beard off a honeydew melon. I think I’ll eat the whole thing. No; I’ll save the southern hemisphere for after I’ve completed my chapbook. I’ve been working on it two days and I’m quite pleased. It’s called Gregarious Chanters. Can’t wait to see you at the Fisk Pavillion March 18th 10:00 p.m. seats A42-A45 with Pete and Jenni!!
A dubious hug,
I have clamidia. Just kidding, but I still can’t make it to the Frunck concert at the Fisk. I’m sorry. I have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, or something. I smoked a bunch of pot before composing this letter to you, and it’s making my handwriting weird. Look how loopy my l’s are! Anyway, let’s just [redacted]
I understand, and understand nothing. You’ve cleaved my heart with your scythe of dicks. I’m a fucking sunder. What gives? All that hip hop shrubbery you’re smoking? Does that give you the courage you need to diddle in my heart’s cavity? I’m seriously a shuttered and blighted city block that used to have a Whole Foods market on it after your note.
Which, strangely, also managed to turn me on.
Let’s connect in person soon.
P.S. Pseudoneema just wished me “Gut Shabbos” and I (guiltily) thought she said “Good Jobbbbbbus”!