A letter I received.
5:12 p.m.

Dear:

This is the third letter I've written you in the past weeks. The first one was stupid, so I threw it away. The second I wrote after you hung up on me, so it was also stupid. This one, actually, is also being written after you hung up on me. But maybe it will be better.

But I'm a little worried that this is late, that i had sent you something a couple months ago, it would have been keeping our promise to write eachother much better than now. And that you would have been really happy to see it, and maybe even squealed, or at least grinned that way where you're one snapple reference from crumpling on the floor and laughing, and you would have told me that, and I would have grinned uncontrollably, and- it would have been better.

But I'm sending it now. Hopefully that's ok.

I'm going to miss you like hell during the summer. I miss you like hell now. (I'm sure you've noticed), and when I can't see you at all for months or hardly talk to you...it will be worse. You have to write postcards and call me a couple time to tell me that the picture of you and me you brought along is dull from constant fingering.

Because outside of that, it looks like my summer will be spent stapling things at my internship, eating pizza with Spencer, and making excuses not to spend time with AnnaKate. And maybe trying to track down becky. I dont know what the hell happened to her.

My parents are calling me for dinner.

***

A cold thai salad. My mom has a thing for cooking asian foods, but other than one or two dishes, she hasn's accomplished much with that interest. It seems a little misguided to me. She watches the Food Network constantly- and buys cooking books written by English celebrity chefs. It's odd.

It leaves me bitter, dinner does, because im never in the mood to talk. I dont know when they'll realize that the formality of everything is a complete impediment to conversation. They ask me questions like, "What conclusions have you come to about life?" And I'll say none, and they'll ask why not, and I'll say I've just been reading, and then they'll jump and ask what book by who and what it's about- I'm sure they think they're very clever.

I brought the phone in. I'm contemplating if I should call you now. I think I will.

***

No. You were not available, after a struggle.

Oh, anyways...

I'm looking forward to printer's row, surprisingly enough. I'm a little disappointed, though, that Vova won't be there. But not really. I would have liked to have met him, but only for a little bit, After maybe 15 minutes, it would have been very awkward.

I think I'm running out of things to say, so I'll end here.

I love you times a billion plus one of whatever anyone else says. And I miss you.

PS- This should reach you in about three days. If you respond immediately, it'll reach me in another three days, giving us a total of six. Or seveenm if we give you a day to write. Either way, my point is that it takes a hell of a long time. So write back soon.

PPS- I did this in one of the letters, and I didn't want it to go to waste.

(a picture of a cleverly devised "Nude Yorker Magazine: The magazine for intellectual porn connoisseurs")

Love, Dear.

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