silly lost things: Sue’s magnets

dear marc,

check out these magnets i once had proudly displayed:

i guess that time i thought i was a 16-year-old boy, i was actually a 42-year-old divorcée office worker named Sue. and Sue DEFINITELY voted to keep bars smoke-free. go figure.


silly lost things: get out of jail free cards

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:


drunken plea/mardi gras/i’m SO SORRY

dear marc,

i’m so sorry that i’ve been the WORST pen pal (actually, YOU are the worst pen pal because you NEVER WRITE ME BACK. but who’s counting?), but i’ve been busy MOVING BACK INTO MY PARENTS’ HOUSE FOR TWO WEEKS BEFORE I MOVE TO SEATTLE, and going to mardi gras in st. louis, which, if you didn’t know, is the second largest mardi gras celebration IN THE WORLD.  don’t worry, i thought about you the entire time i was there.  everywhere i went i had people sign this petition:

i’m sorry, i lied; i totally MEANT to have people sign that petition but i was too busy drinking keg beer and screaming things like, ‘YOU’RE A FAGGOT,’ ‘that’s FAGGOTRONICS,’ and ‘WHO MADE YOU QUEEN OF THE PORT-O-POTTIES? NOT US, AND WE’RE FIFTY PERFECT OF THE VOTE.’ i’m such a stinker! oh, and i was wearing this little bit-o-memories the whole time:


anyway, i hope you’re doing well. i’m tits-deep in SHIT at my parents’ place because i don’t throw anything away? ever? HOARDER. report me, it’s fine.  i miss you!


on my resume: t-shirt designer

dear marc,

i was rifling through my notebook that i carry EVERYWHERE to write down ideas/make lists of things i’m supposed to do when i’m not so drunk, when i stumbled upon a page that had “SHIRTS” written at the top, and bunch of random words scribbled below it. at first i was all, “what the fuck are these from?” and THEN i was totally like, “OMG I SHOULD DESIGN SHIRTS FOR MARC.” wouldn’t that be great? a typical day would be like this:

MARC: matt, i need see your designs for those MbMJ shirts THAT I ASKED YOU FOR TWO DAYS AGO.

MATT: the ones you’re going to sell and give the profits to a charity or whatever?


MATT: well, here’s what i have so far…it’s super sketchy and whatever but…

MATT: what do you think?

MARC: i think your ability to offend all walks of life is uncanny.  and i think you should leave.

style icon: rocky horror partygoers

dear marc,

the Oscars are tonight; are you attending? were you invited? i wasn’t (fuckers) BUT THIS IS WHAT I WOULD TOTALLY WEAR IF I WAS:

AAHHHHHH. do you die? i’m fucking dead. i love their little, shrunken tuxedo jackets! i’ve always wanted to be one of the party people from Rocky Horror Picture Show because they’re so FUN. i would constantly be having FUN and worried about ripping my second-skin satin skinnytrousers:

those are TIGHT, literally and figuratively. i know that if i was at the oscars, they would seat me next to natalie portman and she would be like, “i’m loving your pants, but i couldn’t fit into those because i’m SO HEAVILY PREGNANT RIGHT NOW,” and i’d be all, “GIRL, shut it. yes you can. these pants can work on ANYONE”:

see? that fat fucker not only FITS in the pants, but his legs seem so long and bendy that he could be Gumby’s gay cousin on a coke binge–aka PERFECTION. he’s a god.

too bad i can’t afford to look so FUN all the time. i guess you should hire me and give me a generous clothing allowance so i have an excuse to attend the ‘scars with NatNat.


marc, introduce me to: sienna miller

dear marc,

do you think you could introduce me to Sienna Miller when you hire me?  i think we would be the greatest of frenemies.  when i was in london, i saw her at the premiere of Interview, and even though it was Steve Buscemi’s name that i screamed on the sidelines of the red carpet, i still thought she was adooooorable. she was all poor-postured and weak-ankled and just kept smiling at everything in her slinky silk frock. and i love how the paps are always kind of, sometimes all over her and she’s like, “you guys! come on.” this would totally be us:

SIENNA: MATTY, what did you think of the new twenty8twelve show?

MATT: i thought it was GREAT, SeeSee. i was so happy to see that you’ve continued to make that bleach-splattered denim vest that made the line great in the first place.  i love the idea of paying $150 for something i can probably find at goodwill, without all the risk of it not fitting. or the excitement of finding something on my own.

SIENNA: you cheeky BITCH.

MATT: i’m KIDDING, baby.  really, i think you’re wonderful. hey, say a line from GI JOE.



SIENNA: well…alright.


SIENNA: “get out. GET OUT. (beat) nice shoes.”



MATT: we’re so fun.

SIENNA: one of us is.

MATT: gasp!

SIENNA: let’s have champers and blow for lunch!

so will you? of COURSE you will, you treasure. and you’ll get so much press when we’re arrested for being fun, and the only statement we’ll give to the press is, “MARC JACOBS.”

drunken plea of the (last) week

an english translation, in case you don’t speak sad, drunk homo (but why wouldn’t you, marc? we’ve all been there.):

Dear Marc,

I just told someone who is diabetic that they’re bulimic.  I’m sorry.

It’s so late and people are talking about babies and this pen is wet and THIS PEN IS SOAKING WET and oh my Ghod, it’s so hot in here and I just want my pizza but i swear Katie is hoarding it. Marc, I love my friends but I have to get out of here.

It’s so hot. We went to a party and I was the only one dressed as a boy. Marc, hire me so I can go to parties where I’m the pretty one. Hire me so if I’m not the pretty one, at least I’m the funny one; or at least the original one. There’s pizza here now. The second piece isn’t as big as the first, which is disappointing.

I love you,


boys who dress like girls who dress like boys

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:


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.”


blah blah blah my son’s girlfriend didn’t even send me a thank-you note for the gifts blah blah blah.


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.


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.