In case you were wondering, the check you wrote me for $200 in order to pay for therapy has just been deposited, exchanged for goods, and now whiskey swishes around in my stomach. So in case you wondering, I’m writing this drunk.
In case you were wondering, I do at times speculate on what my life would be like if you were still alive. Miserable, most likely. Though maybe we would bond while smoking cigarettes together on the back porch. But aside from that, yes, miserable.
Dear Elizabeth Gilbert,
Drink. Hate. Die.
In case you were wondering, back in 2009 when I stayed at your house to go to a friend’s wedding nearby and the next morning you woke me up as everyone in the house was leaving except for the baby and myself, it was I who made and ate all four packages of the Betty Crocker Chocolate Chip cookie dough with your large wooden spoon that I didn’t feel like washing and so I buried it in your trash can. I blame the hangover.
I wanted to inform you that a spoon and a lighter are not two random objects. And furthermore, I am not envious.
From a Pussy Lovin’ Lady,
Sorry I was drunk last week.
In case you were wondering, I haven’t given up on a reunion.
Dear Norman Mailer,
Please stop raping and killing women in the first twenty-five pages of your novels.
Dear Next Person Who Will Sit in This Window Seat, 12 A,
In case you were wondering, the stewardess with the platinum blonde hair and cherry red lipstick smudged on her bleached sparkling teeth threw up during our flight, and so you do not have a barf bag tucked into the pocket in front of you.
Dear Ayn Rand,
If you write another speech for a character in your next book, please read it out loud and time yourself in order to get an idea of how long it is. John Galt’s speech, for instance, is three hours long. I know John Galt is important to the plot, but over 100 pages devoted to his speech is the definition of superfluous. If you are struggling with this, anyone who knows how to read can help you out.
Dear Aunt D,
In case you were wondering, my heart rate increased by 9 more beats per minute when, after I told you I was getting married, you said “Well isn’t that cute?”
Well aren’t you an asshole,
Dear the Asshole Jerkface Assclown Fuckface Who Stole My Bike From the Stop Sign at Farragut and Clark While I was Working a Sixteen-Hour Shift Across the Street,
In case you were wondering I hope you are a straight, homophobic dude and are unsuccessful at removing the “I Heart my Cunt” sticker wheatpasted to the bar underneath the seat. And the gay pride one, too.
Dear Emily Dickinson—
Please revisit the proper use of dashes—
Dear Brown Blanket,
In case you were wondering I have no intentions of washing you anytime soon even though there is a mountain range of cum stains all over you. My reason for this is that you have a confusing texture going on—a texture that somehow feels soft and pillowy when against a naked back, but feels scratchy and stiff when grasped in a non-sexual context. I get shivers when I hold you in my hands.
Thanks for Your Understanding,
Dear Girl Scout Who Sold 117 Boxes of Girl Scout Cookies within Two Hours as You Set Up Your Table Outside of a Marijuana Dispensary,
I’m wondering if you could help me learn how to find my place in the world where I will serve my purpose and succeed.
Chelsey Clammer received her MA in Women’s Studies from Loyola University Chicago, and is currently enrolled in the Rainier Writing Workshop MFA program. She has been published in The Rumpus, Atticus Review, and The Nervous Breakdown among many others. She is an award-winning and Pushcart Prize nominated essayist. Clammer is the Managing Editor and Nonfiction Editor for The Doctor T.J. Eckleburg Review, as well as a columnist and workshop instructor for the journal. She is also the Nonfiction Editor for The Dying Goose. Her first collection of essays, There is Nothing Else to See Here, is forthcoming from The Lit Pub, Fall 2014. You can read more of her writing at: www.chelseyclammer.com.