To A Best Friend in the WWW

It’s been well near a month since I’ve seen you. Snow’s fallen, the choirs and carols long since hushed by faces consumed with Christmas leftovers and New Years’ drinks. Wrapping paper concealing the socks and electronics we had on our list, it’s somewhere in a landfill now. The candy canes are on clearance, and cherub stuffed Santas returned to their box deep beneath the stairwell, in the heart of the basement. The trees we stripped of their ornaments, their dignity, long ago tossed to the curb to see a new life in an unfriendly forest. 

This break, it’s almost—so close to being, almost so close to over. 

What I’m trying to say is, I’m ready to come back. The trays of sweets diminished weeks ago and my bedroom walls are caving in. I’m starting to like TV, and it’s scaring me. I saw a man with an egg shaped head tonight, that was my sign; I know for certain that my time here is near expired.

Anyhow, how’ve you been? 

Good? Fantastic? I bet you’re still witty and beautiful. You’ve probably been watching a lot of the History Channel, and I can almost see you curled up on your be—excuse me, the couch, getting a mouthful of sleep. I hope you’ve been taking absurd amounts of bubble baths (I want to see that Princess bottle EMPTY, ya’hear?) and working on your egg sandwich-making. Not that it needs work, just—working on it.

Oh, I’m fine. Getting by, one midnight snack at a time, one sleepless, meatless, longing and thought-provoking day at a time. My nails need a painting and I’ve been itching for a back massage. The good news is, well…the good news is…

…we’re merely weeks, a dozen chocolate bars and a bucket of reduced fat ice cream, a large half-pepperoni-half-pineapple pizza and one all-nighter away from being utterly content. It’s going to be beautiful, and profound, and ridiculous—you can count on that. And we will gain 10 pounds. Count on it.

I can’t wait!

A few things before I sign off:

• My closet is your closet, excluding undergarments

• There’s a bag of meatballs in the fridge. They’re yours. Feel free to add them to your cereal.

• If someone calls the apartment looking for a robot, take a message.

• If someone calls the apartment looking for eight pounds of maple syrup, it’ll cost them $3 with free delivery within the U.S.

• If anyone asks what happened to your roommate, tell them I’m on tour and will be back in 2019.

• I did not count the Oreos in the pantry, so feel free to smuggle.

• In the event that my submarine does not make it back to shore, you are entitled to inherit my duvet cover, laundry money, and that giant bottle of Redken conditioner under the sink. (I know you use Garnier or something comparably soft and seraphic, but you might be able to sell it on Craig’s List.)

• I love you the way mothers love children, dogs love bacon-flavored treats, leprechauns love their lucky charms, and hamsters love those crazy wheelie-bobbers. I do not love you like old men love little boys, or the rugby team loves the rugby team. That’s just not right.

• I am sorry I just compared love to bacon treats, leprechauns and hamsters.

• I really miss you.

Your long-lost kangaroo sistah from another marsupial,

jenny

P.S. I’m concerned about you falling asleep in the tub. Careful or that WalMart soap will put a spell on you.

P.P.S. Do not, under any circumstances, go to Mexican Village without me. God knows that place is crawling with double-popped collars and you’re not ready to experience it on your own.

P.P.S.S. I’ll forewarn you, I’m going through Starbucks detox right now. This may or may not have an adverse effect on my mood, resulting in bouts of drinking pickle juice and watching MSNBC. I’m sorry.