Dear Mom,

Dear Mom,
Over the years, I have thought of many things I would like to say to you. Some of them kind and full of love, some of hurt and some of anger. There are so many things that I don't even know where to begin. I suppose I'll start somewhere and go from there.

It hurt my feelings when you told me that I needed to give up my "whimsical attraction to other women." It isn't whimsy, Mom. I am genuinely attracted to other women in a sexual manner. I can't change who I am, and I'm not sure I would want to. I suppose in my mind I thought it would be easy for you to accept me. Uncle Dick, Aunt Janice, Aunt Becky and Uncle Kevin are all homosexual. The statistic in our family is 1 in 3 is homosexual. Somehow I thought that would make you more accepting of my own sexual proclivities. I suppose I shouldn't have assumed that just because we have that statistic that you would be accepting. After all, your grandmothers never came to terms with it either.

It hurts that you are gone so much lately. I feel like I never really get to see you or talk to you. And I feel like when we do hang out you are mad at me. I feel sometimes like you just use me to take care of Chris when you aren't there and that is both annoying and angering.

I'm mad that you stayed married to W. as long as you did. I suppose it's time to admit that. I know you kept clinging to the belief that God gave him to you and I know you keep saying I need to stop being mad at God for it. But if God gave W. to us and God is omnipotent, then God is cruel. He knew what W. was going to do long before he did it. He knew that he was going to starve Chris and beat us. He knew that W. was going to take advantage of you. He knew that W. was going to take advantage of me. He knew W. was going to try to turn Hannah against us. And that he would mostly succeed. But you stayed. And I know you loved him, I know you thought it was somehow God's plan.

I'm not angry that you couldn't defend us anymore. It wouldn't have mattered. W. was going to do what he would, regardless of your intervention. He would have just shamed us into not telling you anyway.

There were good times, though Mom. I do remember some of the good points. Like learning to play chess and trips to the Children's Museum. Learning about Sacajawea and Corrie Ten Boom and heroes of the Bible. There were fishing trips and moments where I felt really close to you. I feel closer to you now than I did then.

I was afraid to be close to you. I was afraid you would die, especially after your massive miscarriage. I was afraid that if I cared more than I already did you would die and I'd be all alone. Sometimes I still feel that way. I'm afraid to love you because I know it will hurt more than anything when you are gone. And we all go at some point or another. I couldn't stand to see you deteriorate the way Grandma Bobbi did. I just couldn't.

I still feel lingering guilt from some of the thoughts I had when I was younger. Thoughts that if you, Chris and Hannah all died that you would all be better off because things were so terrible for a while there. I felt like a terrible daughter and sister because I wanted you to be gone so that you wouldn't suffer. But at the same time I couldn't imagine losing you. And I was afraid to lose you. I'm still afraid to lose you.

You're my best friend, Mom. In spite of hurt feelings and anger and fear. In spite of all that, I can't imagine what it would be like to not have you. And I can't imagine not talking to you on the phone for silly reasons or going to O'Charley's all the time. Or sharing some of my random music with you.

I suppose all of this has just been supposition to say, I love you Mom. More than any other human being on this earth. More than I could ever fully express. And even though you have hurt my feelings and pissed me off, I wouldn't be the person I am today without you. And, most of the time, I'm pretty happy with the person I am. Bisexuality, hatred for God and religion, lack of forgiveness for W., currently divergent political views and all.

love,
Sarai

Dear God,

Dear God (specifically the God of the Christians),
As my darling girlfriend has said, you are one of the most genuinely unpleasant characters in all of written fiction. You're followers are some of the most hypocritical and some of the most foul individuals I've ever had the displeasure of meeting. Not to mention the ones who are just plain batshit insane.

People murder in your name, you know. They use you as a convenient excuse for all their petty bullshit. They hide their actions behind your book. It's a funny thing really, because more than half of them have never read the thing all the way through.

I used to believe in you, you know. I wanted to be a minister. I used to take my bible out and I would preach to the trees. However, a woman shall not have dominion over man. I still have more of your word memorized than I would like (i.e. Matthew 4:4). At least it comes in handy when I'm pointing out the hypocrisy of your followers.

I used to be afraid of going to Hell. And I felt such massive guilt for my attraction to women and my burgeoning sexual affinities. Yes, Lord, I have sinned and fallen far short of the glory of you. That used to bother me. Though, to be brutally honest, I tried to be bothered by it more than I actually was. I haven't been "on fire" for you in a long time.

Mom says I need to forgive you and start talking to you again. She says you are good. I don't believe it. I don't believe in you at all any more.

Previously to this moment I used to believe that you existed in some fashion or other. Recent events however have made think otherwise. Though there are still good things that happen, making me wonder if you are behind it trying to lure me back. Like Obama winning the election. That made me wonder if you weren't real after all. Because I cried out louder than I ever have that he would win. To anything out there. Of course, if that is true, mayhaps it was Krishna or Ra answering my prayers.

Mom says I need to talk to you. She encouraged my desire to be Muslim because she believes you and Allah are the same being. Which I also agree with, for the most part. She tells me that I need to pour my heart out to you. I tell her that I don't believe in you. She refuses to believe in my disbelief. I suppose she has a right to that.

I have never felt more like an atheist than I do now. And I'm not sure if that is a good or bad thing. But I am dried up. I have felt this before. I know believing in you won't make a difference. It is just the way of things. I hate you, but I want to believe in you. Why is that?

Why do I care?

Because the little girl I was survived Hell and wants to believe it was for a reason. I want to believe I have come this far for a purpose and not because you enjoyed toying with me or because you didn't exist at all. I want to believe it was all for a better world. When in reality, I think it was because the world is sick. And I wish I could be like the girl in my favorite series and destroy the swollen and rotting portions of this world, save it from itself. I can't. I can't save the world. And you have left me with this gaping hole where my heart should be.

I tried to give it to you. It wasn't good enough. I wasn't good enough. I tried to be perfect. I couldn't shake the desire to be a man. The longing to be with a woman sexually. I couldn't deny those feelings and I couldn't deny the love I had for things that were not of "you." Maybe I have been led astray. Maybe I have been wrong. But I tried. I tried, God. I tried to be a good and faithful servant. And I give up. I'm tired of fighting who I am because I am scared of some being that may or may not exist.

If you can't love me for who I am, for who YOU created me to be, how will I ever survive?

Dear Bill O'Reilly,

Dear Bill O'Reilly,
I would LOVE to inform you that just because you don't speak a language doesn't mean that it is being sung in something other than words.
Also, I would like to say that I used to admire you when I was a kid and watched F

ox News (Faux News) religiously. I'm glad that I stopped being brainwashed by racist and idiotic people like you.
http://www.allkpop.com/2012/11/political-commentator-bill-oreilly-insults-psys-gangnam-style
Sincerely,
Sarai

Dear Self, (part II)

Dear Self,
You are stronger than you give yourself credit for. You aren't the strongest person in the world, but you ARE strong. It's time you be a little nicer to you and remember that what hasn't killed you has made you stronger. And everything that has happened has made you who you are today.
Love,
Me.

Dear Self,

Dear Self,
Sometimes, usually when I am alone, I think about what it would be like if I no longer existed. What if I faded into the oblivion and the me that used to be was erased? I think about these things and I think about all the times I tried to make it so.

Dear Self,
You can't let me no longer exist. I can't just give up on the world because I feel like it. It is silly to kill oneself. Selfish and silly, even if at the time the reasons seem right. It's wrong. It's cruel to those around you.

Dear Self,
Sometimes, when I think like that I just wish I still practiced cutting, just to let it out of my skin. It never helps though. It has never actually helped. All it did was create an even deeper self-loathing. The need to extricate myself from my body is strong, but the desire to prove myself better than that is stronger. The desire to make it when there is so much to bring me down and to the brink is what keeps me from all that stupidity. The desire to prove to myself that I am worth all the trouble people have put into me. That I am worth all the time and effort I've put into myself. That is what makes me keep going even though on days, like today, I just want to say "fuck it" and let it all go.

Dear Self,
You can't do that, you know. You can't just give up now. We're finally in a place to be happy. You have to stop conjuring trouble because you are afraid to be happy, afraid the other shoe is about to drop. You can't let it get to you. You can't let YOU get to you.

Dear Self,
You need to love you. I'm sorry I can't say it to you in the mirror. It seems so ridiculous to look at my reflection and tell it that it is loved. Somewhere deep inside of me, I am proud of the person I am and I love that person. But it has gotten so buried over time that I'm starting to lose touch with it. But I promise to keep the hounds at bay and leave the past in the past. We can't keep bringing these pains and these regrets to bed with us. They never help.

Dear Self,
Let. It. Go. Everything that bothers you. Everything that is making you cry. All the doubts and the frustrations and the self-loathing. You have to let it go. Let it go for the both of us.

love,
Sarai

Dear B___,

Dear B___ (and W____),
Despite what you may or may not believe, just because I wear the hijab does not mean that I am weak or able to be bullied. I also, don't tolerate people bullying my friends. You can't possibly believe that you can get away with this. Just because no one wanted to stand up to you before doesn't mean I'll stand down. You have me in the Catch-22, right now, but you won't for long. You'll never change. Which means there will always be something I can use against you. And when the time is right I will do that.

I find it funny that you can't say these terrible things to my face, but you can spew your venom at a completely innocent party. We've been working together for over a year and yet you've never been able to say anything to my face. I know you've been talking behind my back. R___ told me. You know why she told me? Because she truly cares about me, unlike you.

All this time you were attempting to ingratiate yourself into my good opinions. None of it was true. I should've recognized the symptoms of your disease, it's one I've encountered before. Many times, in fact.

And W____, you have broken my heart. I thought, I hoped, that you were just a sheep being lead by B___. I hoped that it was just her strong "personality" that made you behave the way you did. But this, this just tears me up. Because I truly loved you. B___ I could take or leave, but I adored you. I looked at you as another grandmotherly figure. No, we didn't always agree on politics and there was that one awful argument where you told me "God forgive me for what I'm thinking about you right now." But I thought that it was, once again, B___'s bad influence and that you weren't really like that. I see now that I was horrifically mistaken and that you are a far worse monster than I took you for. It both horrifies and nauseates me. I wish I had never cared about you because this is one of the worst feelings I've ever had.

And you both call yourselves Christians. You are part of the reason I don't believe in God anymore, part of the reason I've gone off in search of something to believe in. I would love to say that you are the reason I turned to Allah, but that isn't true. I turned to Allah because I wanted to believe in something and because I have been on this path since high school. Since that first day I brought the KKK out of hiding, I've been playing with this fire and I am going to be burned. I know I will, but at least I will have tried something, whereas you have brought shame upon yourselves and your God.

You may believe that I will back down, but I won't. This is a "Henry Higgins" moment, just you wait. I may come across as a lamb, but I am the tigress and you will have the claws. It's only a matter of when, not if.

In the meantime, I hope that you are happy with yourselves. I know you aren't. I know you are both miserable. Maybe if you weren't so hateful, you would be happy. Maybe if you didn't lie and hate and drag God through the mud, you would be happy and healthy.

As it is, S____ is a better person than you will EVER be and I hope he gets to watch your downfall.

Sincerely,
Sarai

Dear Adam,

Dear Adam,
I forget sometimes, that I have a crush on you. Which seems quite silly, but it happens. I don't talk to you as much as I used to so when we actually get to talk I am always shocked by the strength of the feelings I have always had for you.

I'm so silly. I have written you all sorts of poems and letters before now, confessing said "love." And I do love you. Very much so. I promise not to hold it against you.

It seems crazy that it has been eight years since we met. Can you believe it? You say I'm a cool cat and I make you laugh. And I giggle like a little girl because I love it when you say stuff like that. I love everything about you really. Your sense of humor, your face, YOU.

Do you remember when you first told me that you loved me? We were on the four-wheeler together on Jo's property. Just the two of us and I know she was jealous because she had a crush on you too. And I tried to be independent and refrain from touching you, but then you made the four-wheeler jump so that I had to grab you or fall off. And then I was too, what's the correct word? Too happy to be touching you. You felt wonderful in my arms. I don't mean of that in a sexual manner either. I was just happy to be that close to you.

And I don't quite remember what I said, but you told me you loved me. And I couldn't say it back because I didn't know how, but I've said it a million times since then. Not that it matters, because I don't think you've said it once since that day 8 years ago.

However, it is days like today that remind me all over again why I adore you. I wish we had more days like today. I almost wish I wasn't married so I could tell you all of this for real, see if you would be interested. I know you wouldn't be. Though, as you have said to me "you've not said it, so it is quite unlikely that you 'know' it." Why must you always be right?

Ah, stop it. You are making me feel all squishy on the inside. I wish I had had the courage then, mon ami, to tell you how I felt. Would things be different? Probably not. You would still be half a world away from me, telling me to visit, and I would still be longing for you.

Is it appropriate to tell myself "bonne courage" at this moment? Because I think I need all the courage I can muster to not spoil this lovely friendship with sentiments that can no longer be expressed and followed.

love,
Sarai

Dear Adam,

Dear Adam,
Thank you for helping me destroy my dreams of going to any Asian country ever in such a humorous way. I can always count on you. ;)
love,
Sarai

Dear Memere,

Dear Memere,
I've been writing you a lot lately. I don't know why, but the older I get the more I miss you and the more I want to talk to you. I guess this is our only way to communicate now. Me writing letters to you. Can you read letters where you are? Is there an afterlife? Is there a God?

I thought I would tell you about my life as it stands now, since you aren't here to actually experience it. I am a democrat, first off. The elections are over and I am so happy with our President. I truly adore him and believe he is one of the best presidents ever. Auntie hates him.

I am bisexual, Memere. Would you care? Would I even get up the nerve to tell you if you were still living? I've never actually mentioned it to Auntie, though I haven't hidden it from her. Mom knows, but she pretends it is just a phase. Which hurts, sometimes. It hurts that she can't seem to accept me for who I am. I know I should tell her that some of the things she has sad in the past have hurt my feelings, but I can't bring myself to. Would you be able to accept me?

I am married, which I think I mentioned before. Sometimes I wonder if I married too young, Memere. I care about Donnie, I really do. But lately I keep wishing we hadn't gotten married. Though I don't think I would've enjoyed just living together forever either. That's still frowned upon. I don't know, I just feel like there is a disconnect somewhere and I don't know how to fix it. I feel like I've lost all the feelings I had for him, but I don't want to give up on him because a part of me doesn't want to hurt him. I don't want to give up on this because we've worked too damn hard and too damn long to lose it all now. Maybe I am overreacting because of all the recent stress in my life.

My car broke down and I had to pay $233.63 to get it fixed. AKA: All the money I had saved up. I should be glad it was just the starter and not something worse, but it's hard to be grateful when I know my transmission is getting ready to go and I don't have the money for a new car. Or even a NEWER car. Or even an old car, really.

My darling Memere, you've been gone for fourteen years, and even though you are so very far away from me, I feel almost like you are here with me. It makes me feel a little better, even though I still miss you more than practically anything. I still wish you were here so I could hug you.

I love you.
Sarai

Memere

Oh Memere,
I'm such a failure. I can't seem to do anything right. I feel like you wouldn't like me at all. Or maybe you would think I was wonderful. I don't know. I just know that I only miss you when I'm breathing. I think about you all the time. I should have moved on by now, right? You've been gone for so long I can't remember what you sound like. All I have left are videos and pictures. Videos that I can't watch because I don't have a VCR.

I feel like I've done absolutely nothing that I should've by now. I just wish you were here. I wish Pepere was here. I wish I knew where Dad was. I wish, I wish, I wish.

I am so selfish, Memere. Because I think you should've lived. You should've been there for my wedding, you should've been there when I got my GED. You should've been there when I was in my car wreck. You should be here now. It's unfair.

I think the worst thing is that I don't remember that much about you. All that I "remember" is from videos, a few phone calls and a letter you wrote Mom. I don't remember what you smelled like, or your voice. I feel as though I have no independent memories. And I don't know if that is because I never had independent memories of you or because of my car accident. So much has been lost over the years. So many memories that we'll never have together.

Auntie says you and Pepere are only a heartbeat away. How is it that you are so close and yet so very far away?

I used to talk to you, after you died. Not literally, but just talking to the air and pretending you were there. I wish you were, so I could tell you about all the things I've learned or about my wedding. Tell you about my job and our new apartment. Plan a trip to see you for Christmas. I wish we could do all those things. And we can't.

Would you have asked me what you asked mom? "Do you feel so very young, dear?" I would say no, because this constant missing you has aged me. I've aged a million years in the time you've been gone. You've been gone far too long.

Would you love me now, Memere? Would you be proud of what I've accomplished? I'm afraid you wouldn't. And in the meantime I'm still missing you like my entire world has ended.

Dear W,

Dear W,
I dreamt about you last night, as I sometimes do. Except, instead of the rage I normally feel upon waking, I just felt tired and sad. I'm ready to move on from you, I think. I am ready to let you slip right out of my existence, but you can't. You simply won't fade quietly into a good night. I have come to believe that you exist solely to torment my mother and, through her, to torment me.

I dreamt that Chris and I were looking for something, throwing clothing and other such things all over a bedroom of sorts. It was only when I looked up I realized it was the bedroom I had in the little blue trailer and where the bed should've been for the futon bunk-bed there were only bars. I glanced up at you through those bars, of course you came in without knocking, like you always did.

I didn't yell at you to knock, but simply said you needed to knock before entering someone's room. You walked back over to the door and re-entered, again without knocking. You never told me what you wanted, just stood there, staring. I said something, though I don't know what it was, and you said I didn't know you, I had never known you. You were voicing the words I often think inside my own head.

"Oh, I know you." I said. "I even know what you enjoyed in bed."

You scowled at that and threatened Mom. I lied and said I had walked in on you many a time. Not entirely untrue, but mostly a lie. The truth is that I've always known what you preferred, it was obvious. You enjoyed being in control of all of us, that should logically extend into your bedroom dealings with my mother.

I asked  you what my favorite movie was and you said, "Home." Obviously that wasn't right, and in the waking world I don't think there even is such a movie.

Your favorite movie is "Remember the Titans" and you're least favorite book in the Bible is "Judges" because it is so gory and violent. Which is why it was one of my favorite books, besides "Job" because God is so sarcastic. You never really knew me. I wonder if you ever even cared to try.

Because you were too busy exerting your dominance over us, too busy abusing us and starving us, you missed the beauty that was us. We could've been a beautiful family.

You make me so sick, sick of men, sick of life, sick of everything. I can't talk to God, because I hate that he let you be a part of our lives. I can't go to church because it reminds me of all your lies and hypocrisies and hatred.

I was trapped inside those bars in my dream. I let you trap me there, but I told you to get the fuck out. No malice any longer, just a weary GTFO. I wish you would, truly.

sincerely,
Sarai

Returning to the Font.

Dear ____,

What is it about you that makes me want to write? To scream and cry and dance around like an idiot?

What is it about you that draws me in, even when I tell myself I won't waste anymore verbs or adjectives or nouns on you?

I hate you one moment and then I love you the next. I miss you and then I wish we had never met.

You wreak such havoc on me, emotionally and spiritually, sometimes physically. You make me want to laugh and write volumes of poetry and purple prose.

I want to kill you sometimes, remove the root of you from my soul. Others I wish I could kiss you or be held by you.

I'm so tired of these contradictions. Is it worth it? Will you be the muse that I need to stimulate the growth of the words in my garden? Or will you be my downfall, the weed that chokes everything else out but the hate and the tears and the unforgiveness?

I don't know anymore. I have no idea what I'm doing or where I'm going. I'm feeling things I keep telling myself I'm not and you are there asking how I am after so long?

Wasn't it you that said we had to stop talking? I may take the credit in some verses, but in reality it was YOU that said you needed to stop talking to me, but you follow me, haunt me, sabotage me. I don't get it. I'm so confused. Why? Why now?

I guess I'll take the chance, time heals all wounds, right? Can we rebuild? Do I want to? Why am I suddenly cold, just thinking about you and all that lies in the not-so-distant past?

God, I'm confused and you're a drug that keeps taking me higher and higher until I'm too scared to look down. I feel like I've lost track of who I am any time you are near. And you aren't near, but you are. You are as close as my skin and yet further than I can imagine. Why do I let this bother me?

And to think, the only bait you use is "how have you been?"

Dear Annie,

Dear Annie,
Last night, for the first time in so long I don't remember, I dreamt about you. Honestly, it's been so long since I've seen you that I hardly think about you. I feel a little bad about that. But when I do think about you, it is always with a mixture of fondness and fear and nostalgia.

I think about you when I think about the Barbies of the World collection or China dolls. I still have the layout of your old house memorized, the one on Marilyn Drive. Sometimes, when I see a spider I remember how terrified you were of them and how I was so apathetic about them. I remember that, as children do, you wanted me to be scared of them too and you held the flashlight tightly as your other hand made spiders engulf the shadows of the ceiling. And all I could do was giggle, because it seemed so silly to me, to be afraid of such a little thing. What could it do to me?

It wasn't until the next morning, when we discovered Smoky (my Labrador puppy) dead, the rigor mortis having set in and his little body conformed to the side of his dog house, that I became afraid. And Jasmine (Smoky's sister) died later that afternoon, half buried underneath the shovel and other tools Wes used to bury them in the yard. I still feel guilty about leaving her suffocating underneath those tools. It took her hours to die, when we could've rushed her to a vet. Because of that day I became afraid of spiders. Spiders brought death. And massive amounts of childhood guilt. I drift between the waves of that fear really, some days are better than others. Did you ever grow out of it?

It's funny, but when I think of you I often think about you singing. You sang "Amazing Grace" that day with the dead puppies, a plaintive dirge. You sang that cute little song we made up about Ice cream cones to Hannah so she wouldn't cry as we drove to my house. Looking back you and Maria, your sister, were always singing. At least in my memory.

I don't even remember how we met or became friends. I know that you had been on the edges of my periphery for a while, someone I knew but not someone I hung out with. It wasn't until after the other girls I used to hang out with had ditched me, for good apparently, that you and I became friends. It was jealousy that had caused them to ditch me in the first place. I was only seven and was already a woman in all senses of the word except for menstruation. You were ten and had not yet achieved a training bra so I'm not sure why you and I ended up being friends. I sometimes worried that you didn't like me because of my breasts. They always got in the way and I was more a boy than a girl most times.

It was only when I was with you that I was a girl, really. We played dress up most of the time. Or we hid behind the bushes against the fence at the back of your house and spoke to our "fairy." That little bit of imagination I cherish most. I adored our "fairy." I hated it when that part of our play-time came to an end. She died with the oncoming winter, a summer and autumn sprite, and we never resurrected her.

We chased each other through the house sometimes, searching for places to hide. Most often that was the laundry room amongst the dress up clothes and wash waiting to go. That day that you claimed you were a vampire and that you were going to drink me dry, where were your parents? Or Maria? I don't remember them being there at all. I remember running, out of breath and slightly frightened. I have always felt mildly panicked when someone was "chasing" me, even in play. I hid first in Maria's room, then down the stairs and sliding into the kitchen and down another set of stairs to the sunken living room. From there I ran to the laundry room. I hid behind one of the machines, but I could hear you coming. I ended up opening the door to the back staircase to your parents room. I ran, quietly, up the stairs into their room and into their bathroom and hid behind the glass doors of the shower. You found me, of course.

When I dreamt of you, I dreamt that you were married, happily, and working for a Senator. Which senator is unclear. But where you were living was like a dream land, partially because it was. Everything was rounded and fantastical. It had portions of the house on Marilyn Drive and other houses I've admired over the years. And for portions, I was seven running away from you all over again. But you were an adult and I was the child, it was odd. It never felt like that when we were kids, I always felt that you and I were on even ground.

After all, it was in your house that I fell in love with Ancient Egypt, our Homeschool group learning about Tutankhamen. And your dog's name was Kizzy, after the ancestor of Alex Haley in his book "Roots."

I miss you, Annie. I do think about you, not as often as I used to. Do you remember me at all? I wish you well, maybe one day, with the wonders of the internet and what not, we'll be able to find one another on Facebook or something.

Until then,
Love,
Sarai

Fawn of the Dead.

Dear Fawn,

Often I think about you. Usually in my bed, in the old house, at night and mostly naked. Sometimes I think about you, fully clothed, when we were in the middle of bumfuck Egypt and you were brilliant and vital and full of something I can't quite explain. You were my everything even then, though I don't think I realized it and I don't think you did either. We were just best friends then. Nothing more. Though I would often joke that I could be your mom (which I totally could, by the way) and sometimes called you my sister and my wife.

Do you remember when we told that one odd friend of yours that I was your cousin from the Jordan? I thought about that recently while waiting on a customer from Saudi Arabia. We fooled a lot of people with our talk of being sisters originally from Japan and only living in the states for a short time. Just long enough to raise the money to get home. I still feel like we are trying to get home to Japan some days. Do you ever think about those times?

I remember when we first met in person. We hugged as though we were long lost friends and we laughed so hard I thought we'd die. We were going to see Yo and X in September. Lots of stuff happened after that though that prevented that particular excursion. It's okay though. We met Michael, we got way smashed, we got kicked out of that one clinic (I could be your mom! Honeyblade!), I read "Exquisite Corpse" and frightened you by laughing at it. We made lots of trips to the hospital, which weren't fun. Though that one nurse pegged us as a couple before we actually became one.

Then you got sick. And I was scared, honey. I was worried that you were going to leave me, because we had no idea what was going on. One day you were fine and the next you weren't. But we made it through because we couldn't give up. It was like finding another piece of my puzzle, really. So we watched Korean Horror films and we ate ramen like it was going out of style (though there was nothing we wanted more than some good old fashioned Mozzarella Bites). You made me jump a mile high grabbing my leg while we watched "A tale of Two Sisters." I let you talk me into watching "Dawn of the Dead" and I was surprised when I actually enjoyed it.

I'm going to be honest, I had a sinking feeling I wouldn't be going back to Oklahoma. I kept telling myself that I would, but I was afraid I wouldn't. I didn't want to tell you what I was thinking, because I thought you wouldn't let me leave if I did. And it's not that I wanted to leave (because I didn't really want to), but I had made a promise. I'm sorry I broke mine to you that I would come back. Extenuating circumstances and all that jazz.

Did you know that the first person I told my mother to call on the night of my wreck was you? I told her "You have to call Fawn, she's going to be pissed." I was so scared that night. I didn't know what was going on and all I could think was that I wanted to die. I was so in and out of it that night and for the remainder of my time in the hospital. I don't remember you or Donnie being there, even though I know you flew out immediately and stayed with me right up until you had Sarai. I know Donnie was there every day, but I don't remember him being there.

I don't remember a lot of what happened then, maybe that is the reason I lost the case so badly (that and a rather bad lawyer). I wish you could've been there. Of course, if you had been you would've been separated from me like Donnie was. I think that made it harder, actually. Not being able to have the two of the strongest people in my life there to help me.

Damn, I'm getting thirsty. Would you like a refreshing drink of "dite cock?" It's fresh, just bought it for 65 cents. It's delicious and refreshing, truly! And we laughed so hard that they changed it.

I'm so happy you came to be with me after the accident. I wish you were still here, though I know I don't need you as much as I did then. But I still dream about you, I still miss you like crazy.

Do you remember when I asked you out? It'll be four years ago March 9th. Can you believe it? You didn't believe me at first. You thought I was joking and even asked Donnie if I was being serious. It was amidst all the Sakuya bullshit, but we made the best of it and I don't regret it. Even though we both kind of forgot about it for a year or two... Because we are the only people I know who could forget that we were dating each other.

The Sakuya shit will have to wait for another day, as will so many other things I want to say. But just know that I love you and, no matter what, I'll stand with you.

I hope that one day, we can get married (and I can still be married to Donnie). I love you.

Love,
Sarai.

My dear Cadillac,

My dear Cadillac,
I'm afraid our story has come to an end. We didn't know each other long, though I still think about you. I still wish I could've saved you.
We came out on the rougher edge of things. Including in court.
I won't say I'd take it all back, because, truth be told, I wouldn't. Everything that has happened has shaped a part of my character. I wouldn't be me without all the awfulness that has come with the accident.
However, it IS time to let you go. It is time to let the past go. It is done now. It is over. I will always miss you.
Love,
Sarai.

A note to myself.

I am looking back over the pages of my life's story. Some things I will pass over, pretend they aren't there. Some I will read and re-read lovingly, the pages worn with care. Others I will pause to quietly cry over; things I lost, things I said, people I miss.
The thing that you have to remember, when you re-read your life's story, is that as long as you have survived the bad times and rejoiced in the good, you have done well. It won't matter how many people read it, how many people "like" it, how much praise you have earned. What matters is that you were your own person, you survived what you had to and you have become someone you like, someone you admire. You have loved, more than you hated. You have given, more than you received. You are who you are and no one can take that from you.

I am proud of you.

To the girl at McDonald's working 3 jobs, in High School, working overtime on her birthday: I don't have anything to spare besides my words (and McD's wouldn't let you accept a gift from me) but you can do it and I am proud of you. Happy birthday, I hope it is better than it was when I came through your line.

Dear Hip,

Dear Hip,
Just because it is raining doesn't mean you need to go crazy and hurt. I'm trying to sleep.
Love,
Me.

Dear Grandpa,

Dear Grandpa,
Happy Birthday. I miss you like crazy and still think of you almost every day. Sometimes I hear your voice in my head and I just start crying because I feel like we didn't have a proper goodbye. I love you and I miss you. I hope we will meet again soon in the next life.
love,
Sarai

Dear Ann Coulter,

Dear Ann Coulter,
Civil rights is not just limited to Black people. Civil rights exists for ANY group being disenfranchised by their government. That's the point of Civil Rights. And I don't agree that these other groups (women, homosexuals and Immigrants) are just whining because they are not getting what they want. And you know what, your ancestors were immigrants. People who were looked down upon. I am part Irish and the Irish couldn't get jobs in this country because they were Irish. You are an idiot if you truly believe that Black people are the only people that have been treated unfairly and disenfranchised in this country.
Sincerely,
Sarai.