Oh My Darling!
I woke up this morning with a song in my heart and a lump in my drawers. I can’t contain my feelings any longer. I love you! I love you! I love you! It’s true! I’m a monkey on a moonbeam! Whenever I see that chewy little face of yours – with that sulky little frown – well, my pussy does backflips. BACKFLIPS, DARLING!.
And it’s true what they say, you know. Love IS soft as an easy chair, fresh as the morning air. It’s higher than a mountain, thicker than water. It’s mountains in springtime, a walk in the rain. It’s a storm in the desert, a sleepy blue ocean.
I could go on. I won’t.
Point is: I’ve never felt like this before.
Oh, there have been other boys. I won’t lie. Johnathon Taylor Thomas. Aaron Carter. Hobie from BAYWATCH. I don’t come to you a blushing virgin.
But none of them hold a candle to you, baby.
Brandon, my love, my pouty little peacock, my little galette des roi – I love it when you are dressed to the nines and handsome as all get-out. Of course I do. Who can resist your roguish, preening charms? But here’s the thing: I love you MORE when you are greasy, bloated, and paunchy. I do! It’s true!
You are dark and troubled, my darling. Like fat Elvis. When I think of your relentless shopping, and the obvious man-makeup that you pile on. . . well, it’s a sign of some inner turmoil. I KNOW THESE THINGS. You’re a mess. I can see it. And when I see pictures of that sea-cow brother of yours, well, somebody must have fucked you guys up but good. I’ve been there. I KNOW. So you see, you NEED me. You need my healing, unconditional love.
Which brings me to the point of this letter. We need to talk.
Your mewling little starlet.
That skinny, skanky, gold-digging, knicker-wearing, chair-throwing, half-faced, ET-looking little non-actress that you’ve been squiring about town. I will not even dignify her with her name.
Let me be frank: She’s not good enough for you.
She doesn’t understand you like I do. She can’t give you what I can.
And we have so much in common, you and I. You like shopping, I like shopping. You like parties, I like parties. You like getting your picture taken, and hey, so do I!
And, you know – give me a pair of crotchless panties, a gallon of glitter lube, and a tank full of (non-electrical) eels, and I will have you on your knees, bitch, begging for more.
I’m just sayin. You might want to think about it.
FOREVER YOUR GIRL
– James St. James