Dear Amy Sedaris:
It has been two weeks since I gave you my phone number and you decided I wasn’t dangerous enough to respond to. But it’s no big deal. It never could have worked out between us anyway.
First of all, I was looking at what you wrote in my book at your booksigning and I’ve realized that there’s a big difference between what you actually wrote…
…and what I now believe you actually meant, which I assume is:
“No really, I’m soooo fucking sorry that I had to hear that scathingly boring story of some lunatic’s husband’s emergency gallbladder surgery. What does this have to do with me again? Oh yeah, nothing. I wonder what my pet rabbit is doing right now? Probably pooping. Or having little rabbity dreams. Or having sex. God, that rabbit gets around. I wonder if I should have her checked for VD. Oh Lord, loonie’s still talking. What is this she’s handing me? A love letter with pictures of me and her cat on it? Oh that’s helpful. Someone call security.”
Secondly, Amy, I fucking hate cupcakes. I know in my letter to you I said there was nothing better, but what I really meant to say was that “there’s nothing better than a too-small, unsatisfying cake that’s been baked in a bag of paper, unless it’s basically anything else in the world.” Like maybe a sandwich filled with broken glass and hair, that would be better.
Anyway, I can’t believe that I wasted all that time at Blogher listening to the static-filled feedback from the bug I planted on you when I could have been focusing on throwing myself at Chloe Dao, who didn’t even laugh at me when I drunkenly cut off a chunk of my own hair in front of her at a cocktail party. (True story.)
Anyway, no hard feelings. I hope you and your filthy gonorrhea rabbit are very happy together.
PS. Do you know Chloe? Because if you could get me in with her I’d be willing to destroy the audio of you using the toilet that I may or may not have been playing at parties.