Dear marc,
I’m sitting at a bus stop listening to a cover of ‘forever young’ and getting SENTIMENTAL. I had to leave the bar because I’m tired/old/drunk/hungry/OLD, which is the saddest thing I’ve ever admitted in public.
help a bitch, srsly.
And of course the bus is 20 minutes late. I WANT TO EAT THE CHOCOLATE MY MOM SENT ME. Happy easter, you cunt.
dear marc,
hey. how are you? you’re doing great? your business has never been better and you’re actively running 3 or 4 companies? i’m so happy for you.
WELL I’M NOT SO GREAT, THANKS FOR ASKING.
i’ve become everything i never wanted to be: i’m single, penniless, MOSTLY SOBER BECAUSE I’M SO PENNILESS, and living with someone who yells at me if i wash my face or make toast after 930 pm. AND I HAVE TO TAKE THE BUS, MARC. THE BUS. do you know what that’s like? feel free to read this insightful socio-anthropological study about bus people in Seattle and then picture yourself all up in that asshole. IT ISN’T PRETTY. IT SMELLS.
and my life has become a series of panic attacks because i either can’t stop thinking about being unemployed or, more recently, why a job i’ve interviewed for three times didn’t pan out because i’m a ‘cowboy’ and ‘too creative.’ so i spend most of my days walking to calm myself. i walk right when i get up in the morning (afternoon), when all the people who work from home are running or pushing strollers and it makes me even more depressed because it makes me wish i was unemployed and still in London, where the only people out during that time were homeless people and nannies who took their charges to the park just so they could secretly smoke behind their backs. i also walk at night, which is the witching hour for fat chicks who don’t want people to see them run, and hormonal youths who eat each others tongues at the bus stop two blocks away (YOU ARE TERRIBLE KISSERS). i also keep my eyes out for Lucius, Wyatt, and Gordy:
HELLO, REWARD MONEY. i’ve thought about calling these people and telling them that i have their precious pet, but i won’t let them have it back because finders-keepers, just to stir the pot.
and i’ve found that i’m doing this thing that i do when i’m really depressed and have no friends, which is eat really fibrous foods and then lie, silent and bloated, in my bed watching 3rd Rock from the Sun thinking, ‘i’m so glad i don’t have a bunch of friends who are always asking me to do stuff, because i would definitely have to turn them down tonight, i’m so gassy.’ i usually pass out right before the Solomons sit on their roof and muse about that week’s adventure.
but before you go doing something silly, like OFFER ME A JOB or go cry on your EGYPTIAN COTTON BEDSPREAD WITH HAIND-STITCHED SILHOUETTES OF YOURSELF (i’m assuming), everything isn’t lost. i’ve been pictured on a couple blogs looking like the piece of trash i’ve become, which is obviously nothing new but it keeps my spirits up and my name in the papers.
i’m getting desperate, marc. REALLY desperate. tomorrow i might apply to work at a grocery store just so i can save myself from needing to go to the emergency room when my bedsores get infected.
please, marc. please get me out of here.
dear marc,
i’ve only been in TWO relationships in my life (if you don’t count the weird thing that’s going on between me and nicotine) and the only proof i have are two pieces of paper that were (hopefully) part of larger, grander love confessions/this-isn’t-working confessions:
god, these people were CLINGY and DEMANDING. don’t tell them i said that. and don’t tell them i showed you these.
P.S. i used to be straight!
dear marc,
so, my parents are forcing me to go through ALL of my old shit that i have at their house before i move because, ‘we need our space, too. and Gary will throw a SHOE if all of this isn’t gone and into a storage place before you leave.’ ug whatever, MOM. anyway, i’m finding SO MANY WEIRD THINGS while i venture through my old room. example:
coupons for kids! i loved these! i would always use the ‘Good for One Free Hug’ when my mom was SUPER pissed at me for carrying around an umbrella and pretending to be Mary Poppins. this one is my favorite though:
I’D LIKE TO CASH THIS ONE IN, PLEASE.
Dear marc,
Please hire me so I can afford to hire movers to haul all my mary-kate magazines to seattle.
dear marc,
i was standing in line at the bank to deposit some funds (so that check i wrote to my mom doesn’t bounce my account into overdraftville), when something happened to me that hasn’t happened since…last week? if it were a short film about mistaken identity and the malaise of being poor and 25, the screenplay would read like this:
INT. BANK—EARLY AFTERNOON
MATT stands in line behind OLD LADY, who is talking to BANKTELLER. he is disheveled, but the kind of disheveled that says, “i’m too knowledgeable about fashion to care what i look like right now. or ever.”
OLD LADY AT THE COUNTER
blah blah blah my son’s girlfriend didn’t even send me a thank-you note for the gifts blah blah blah.
BANKTELLER
the NERVE. let me just take care of her and then i’ll let you finish talk at me.
matt roles his eyes and trudges up to the counter. the transaction is awkward.
FADE TO BLACK
did you see that? the bankteller said HER. let me just take care of HER. normally i would make a giant deal out of the whole thing, but I’ve finally realized that i will forever be a “her” in some peoples’ eyes. i can’t help that I naturally dress like mary-kate olsen and that I’m CURSED with these pouting lips and long lashes. i also can’t change the fact that girls dress in boys clothes all the time, so now anyone on the street in a long button-up flannel and skinny jeans could be Vanessa Hudgens or whatever piece of jailbait is cool these days. anyway, i know i’m a boy, my friends know i’m a boy (i think), and that’s all that really matters, i guess.
so for every boy that’s been mistakenly called “miss,” “her,” or “that chick with the glasses,” i salute you. to every guy that’s been dancing with his friend when he suddenly feels someone grinding on his assbone and turns around to discover that it’s a lipstick lesbo who thinks you could be the Ellen to her Portia, i say, pop the booty. don’t feel bad for liking your shirts long and your pants skintight. boys who dress like girls who dress like boys are PEOPLE, too.
dance on, my brothers. dance on.
Spread the love, marc.
dear marc,
i forgot that fashion week started yesterday. maybe it’s because i was too busy dealing with this:
i hope you’re having fun.
dear marc,
it’s been almost forty-five minutes since greg, the mouse that’s been haunting Grey Gardens, decided to wander into our kitchen and literally sit in front of the peanut butter-filled, neck-snapping trap we put out for him. FORTY-FIVE MINUTES, marc.
in that time i have quietly and carefully been able to do the following things:
get a text from my landlady saying that i’m late on rent.
text jenn and tell her that greg is here.
ask my mother to loan me rent money.
take a call from jenn and explain, through whisper screaming, that greg the mouse is here and that i’m TERRIFIED and she needs to come home IMMEDIATELY.
look up flights for my move to seattle.
ponder the results of just taking a knife and stabbing greg.
write a check for rent money and then tiptoe it out to my landlady’s mailbox with a nerve-calming cig in my hand.
i could piss, i’m so terrified of greg. it’s not that he’s going to hurt me, i know that. i just don’t like the idea of something INVADING MY SPACE and potentially SCURRYING OVER MY FOOT when i’m not looking.
none of this would be happening if you just gave me a job, marc. i’m not saying there won’t be mice when you move me to new york or wherever, i’m just saying that i won’t have to be here to watch them toy with me. and if i DO happen to be at home when that happens, at least i’ll be able to afford enough alcohol to ignore the situation.
GET ME OUT OF HERE.
update: greg went INTO the trap, then got OUT of the trap. he seemed confused, so while he was walking i away i put this over him:
THIS ISN’T FUNNY ANYMORE MARC. WE COULD HAVE PUT FLOWERS IN THAT JAMESON TIN.
dear marc,
i don’t want to come off as a total gwyneth paltrow, but i’ve been meaning to offer you some constructive criticism: i bought your cologne, Bang, over a month ago and i have yet to get Banged. let’s set aside the fact that i spend most of my days in bed watching ‘buffy the vampire slayer’ on netflix (does sarah michelle gellar even KNOW what a bra is?), eating peanut butter sandwiches and not showering. i spray that shit on my giant sleeping shirt every day, and god damnit i want to get LAID, man. i want some to totally mess me up. i want to be rolling around in gold tinfoil, my naked, rippling muscles glistening in the harsh light of some lower east side studio while a bunch of attractive, but ‘serious-about-fashion’ interns bring me cigarettes and jameson.
i know i have some things to overcome–body fat and possible self-induced agoraphobia among them–but i don’t think you should make promises in your ads that can’t be easily attained. but i’ll continue to spray your spicy, woodsy scent until someone finds me attractive enough to make me look like the Bang bottle, which is to say, tore up.
dear marc,
i’m sitting on my bed (that has no sheets), in the dark, making a mix called “the good times,” which consists of nothing but songs by lisa loeb, jewel, and the cranberries (my holy trinity). if this isn’t a desperate cry for help, i don’t know what is.
get me out of here and into a life that involves more velvet garments.
marc jacobs: hire me 