Open Love Letters, Part One

No one writes letters anymore.

For years, I wrote to Diana Wong. We were best friends in 8th grade, and we penned six page missives to each other once a week. (Miss you, Di!) And then it stopped. We tried email, but--well, we were lost without the letters. There's just something better and right about pressing the tip of a cheap, ball-point pen onto a stack of college-ruled notebook paper. I sniffed the pages I wrote before I stuffed them into my homemade envelopes.

Good times.

So, I've decided to revive the form. Sure, I don't know anyone's street address, and I always underestimate the cost of postage. I will write letters again!

I just need a little practice. This isn't the same as scribbling high school gossip to Di Wong, but it's a start.

Dear Low-Fat Chocolate Vanilla Swirl Push-Up Pops,

I love you.

Now, I know we've only just met. But don't you think it means something that I was thinking about Push-up Pops on the day I rescued you from the freezer? Not only that, I was thinking, "Wouldn't it be great if Push-Up Pops came in a flavor other than orange sherbet?" See, orange sherbet tastes just as disgusting as ear wax or scrambled eggs. Only the push-up mechanism made the taste tolerable. I love the creamy, decadent flavors--chocolate and caramel--and until now I've always had my ice cream with a spoon or on a cone.

Yes, I love you. I didn't need the endorsement of characters from "The Flinstones" or "Scooby-Doo" to love you, either. You are perfect the way you are, Low-Fat Chocolate Vanilla Swirl Push-Up Pops. Thank you for not going to my hips.

Always,
Sam

Dear Trey Parker (But Not Matt Stone, Never Matt Stone),

I'm not like the others--

Wait, no.

Dear Trey Parker (Screw Matt Stone),

Remember that time you were in that movie? You know, "Cannibal! The Musical"? Back in the early '90s? Remember? Huh?

No again.

Dear Trey Parker (I'll Punch You in the Face, Matt Stone),

I saw "Orgazmo" on one of the best nights of my life. There wasn't much to it. I was a sophomore at a college in Middle of Nowhere, Ohio. It was April, and for the first time that year, we could go outside without our coats. By the time my roommate and friends filed into the little theater on campus, our skin was damp with night mist. We saw this play, "El Grande de Coca Cola," and I had a crush on the male lead. He wore this technicolor costume, and his Spanish wasn't so great, but I felt warm all over. At one point, he ran into the aisle--so close to my seat--and pretended to hurl a knife or something. I don't know. It was fabulous.

Afterward, we played for a couple of hours at this carnival on campus. There was no reason for the carnival to be there. We didn't have cable, so we had to make our own fun, I suppose. Anyway, I ate so much popcorn and cotton candy, I thought I would barf. I won a keychain that broke before I got back to my room around midnight.

It was so late, but the five of us--Tino, Damon, Lee, James, and me--couldn't imagine going to bed. So, Damon brought his copy of "Orgazmo." We gave him this look, like, "What the hell?" I probably asked him if it was gross because I hated gross movies. (Screw you, "American Pies 1-3.") He asked us--me--to trust him, and we did.

"Orgazmo" is gross--but it's funny. And it was part of this night that I didn't want to end. After that, we could greet each other like this: "Damon, I don't think I'm gonna do it Hamster-style anymore. You goin' to dinner?" It was that one night, that still point in our turning world of midterms and squeaky dorm mattresses, and that movie is sewn into the experience. So, now, when I watch "South Park" or "Team America" or even "Baseketball," I recover a little of it. I remember. Thank you for not going to my hips.

Love,
Sam