thejunipertree: (Default)
Dear Slumbering Subconcious,

I really appreciate the little vacations you give me every night and sometimes, when I pass out on the couch in a drug-induced haze while watching Battlestar Galactica SO SAY WE ALL MOTHERFUCKER fall asleep in the living room. I especially love when I can take aspects out of them and use them to write woefully disturbing stories. Zombie dreams are always fun. Or the ones about finding parts of my house that I didn't ever know existed before? Those are good, too.

But, if you're going to send me sex dreams about celebrities, can you at least make them about people I wouldn't terribly mind getting naked with?

Just so you know, making out with Glen Danzig is not exactly an idea that fills me full of joy and song. I'm fairly certain I would rather eat my own hair, actually.




thejunipertree: (Default)
Dear Nick Cave,

Word on the street is that you finally caved in and shaved that damn dodgy mustache; or rather, as you've apparently been spinning it: your wife shaved it off after she roofied you while you were sleeping.

Maybe now we can be friends again.

Love (maybe),
thejunipertree: (Default)
Dear Unseen Guy:


Seriously, man. Just give it up. I could play better than you and I can't play guitar.


the creepy girl who lives on the ground floor

You do realize that every time you play, the lady who lives above me turns up her television to deafening volumes and stomps around in some hamfisted effort to annoy you. This is, to be quite blunt, fucking hilarious.
thejunipertree: (Default)
Dear iTunes,

You know that I am a big, big fan of both you and the iPod, right? I mean buying an iPod was the second best purchase I've ever made, next to buying a Mini Cooper, so it's not like I'm one to talk shit about you and yours.


Can you please stop shuffling my goddamn music library at the end of every song? I'm just sitting here, trying to listen to my newest rock star boyfriend omg ya'll newest musical obsession and you keep skipping all over the place. Ordinarily, had I set you to skip all over the place, I wouldn't have a big problem with this. But, I most assuredly did NOT click shuffle.

So, stop that. Please.

thejunipertree: (Default)
Dear Young Master Aristotle:

If you do not stop sulking and refusing to eat every time you miss your first strike at the prey I am dangling before you, I am going to turn you into a belt.


Lying on the prey afterwards does not constitute eating it, you know. And it's just downright insulting, to boot.
thejunipertree: (Default)

Tonight, I kicked the shit out of my World Lit final.

Dang, seriously. I made it my little bitch.

Especially with the essay I wrote comparing and contrasting the relationships of Shakespeare's Hamlet/Ophelia, Marie de France's Bisclavret/his wife, Anne Bradstreet/her husband, and Beowulf's Grendel/Grendel's mother. Then I discussed what these four relationships said about the nature of love.

It was entitled: Douchebaggery, Thy Name is Hamlet.

I love this class and am very sad that my last night of it is next week. Except for how I had to sit through five different students tonight attempting to read Sonnet 130 (My mistress's eyes are nothing like the sun...) for twenty-five points of extra credit.

That was pretty painful, yo.

This class seriously kind of maybe makes me contemplate going into literature as a some kind of major and eventual profession. But, I am not quite that much of a maschochist.

Oh, what manner of nonsense is that?

Yo ho, yo ho, it's a mortician's life for me!


The Engineer totally talked about masturbation and ball-shaving tonight to the Masons. It slayed me.
thejunipertree: (Default)
Dear Mr. Cave,


You're starting to freak me out now. As I say to my boyfriend whenever he has beaten a dead horse into a bloody smear on the ground: JOKE'S OVER.

No love (ok, maybe a little bit just for old time's sake),

thejunipertree: (Default)
Dear Mr. Way,

If it's possible for me to still desire rockstar makeouts with you after seeing a photo of you holding a baby, then you've got to be some kind of fucking demi-god.

Dang, boy. PHWOAR.


Could you keep this on the DL?
I don't want to upset Nick Cave.
thejunipertree: (Default)
Dear Mr. Cave,

What the SHIT is up with the goddamn mustache? For real, man. Did you lose a fucking bet or something?
I seriously adore your new band and you're still a god among men, but your facial hair is really starting to freak me out.

Please make it go away.


My deepest condolences on the death of your hairline. I blame all that Aquanet when you were in The Boys Next Door and The Birthday Party.
thejunipertree: (Default)
A large furry creature has apparently taken up residence in my sinuses. Said creature has also brought along its mates, High-Running Fever and Wracking Cough, to be its roommates.

I simply can not be held accountable for my actions during this time period. Especially not when the underside of my nose is so chafed and sore.

Additionally, one of the cats (Nympho) has begun to pull out his own fur. In great clumps. All over the living room floor. In abject horror, I stood in the hallway this morning and watched him do it. Lick, lick, lick, *ptui!*

He has several little bald patches along his underbelly. Quite lovely. I've since composed the following memo to be put into his inbox:

To: Nympho
CC: the other four cats
From: She Who Feeds You and Doesn't Kick You Off the Bed
Subject: Knock it the fuck off with the fur pulling

My esteemed compatriot,

Please to be not pulling out your own fur. It's bad enough that I have this impulse control disorder, but you really don't need to follow suit. It's not impressive. Also, it scares me when I wake up in the morning and find several patches of grey all over the carpet. Yesterday, I thought we had kittens roaming the apartment. You can imagine my surprise when I discovered that it was not kittens I was becoming overrun with, but clumps of inanimate fur.

Couldn't you attempt to emulate me in any other of my more respectable traits? I recommend the 'having a job and paying my own way' trait. It's a rather nice one to have and enables one to buy shiny things to bat across the floor. I recommend it wholeheartedly.

I would also appreciate it if you could please let me know why you're pulling your fur out? I generally pull out my hair when I'm stressed. You, however, are a cat and subsequently, are not exposed to the same levels of stress that I am. Your chief worry is whether you can get to the prime spot on the couch before any of the other cats do or whether I'm going to roll out of bed before noon and feed you.

Additionally, if the reason why you're pulling out your fur be something simple and inexpensive to change that would be fantastic (ex. being upset that my shoes are still in the living room, not liking the fact that I haven't gotten you stoned on catnip in quite some time, or wishing to increase the number of treats you are given in a day).

Failing all of this, you're getting a trip to the vet's office. The last time you visited the doctor, you made quite a spectacle of yourself and that was only to get your blood sugar checked. If you make me take you there again, I'm going to, quite deliberately and with complete malice, ask for your temperature to be taken and your ears cleaned. And I'm sure we all remember how much you simply just love those things.

In other words: keep it up, jerkoff, or your ass is going to be sore for the next week and your ears will be filled with fluid, to boot.

I trust that I have made myself perfectly clear?

Warmest Regards,
She Who Has No Qualms About Putting You In the Goddamn Cat Carrier and Taking You to the Place of Bad Smells and Sore Asses
thejunipertree: (Default)
Dear eldest brother:

I am not now, nor have I ever been, a VICTIM.

My upbringing did not make me one. My lack of opportunity didn't make me one. Being poor didn't make me one. Moving around a lot and not spending more than five years (and that was the longest stretch) in any one place didn't make me one. Our mother getting divorced twice didn't make me one. Not being guided and encouraged during my formative years didn't make me one. Coming from a broken home didn't make me one. Being a drug addict didn't make me one. Being a latchkey kid didn't make me one. Having a mental illness didn't make me one. Our mother being promiscuious didn't make me one. Our mother getting pregnant at sixteen didn't make me one. Being told that I could be whatever I wanted didn't make me one. Not being forced to go to college didn't make me one. Making the right decisions too late in life didn't make me one.

And none of these things caused you to be a victim, either. You did that all on your fucking own.

You seem to have this idea that our mother was a completely wretched person who never thought of anyone but herself. Sure, our mother wasn't a storybook depiction with freshly baked cookies after school and gentling prodding to finish your homework. Nor was she even halfway to that. She was loud-mouthed, had a vocabulary that would make a sailor blush, drank in bars, slept around, got married when she shouldn't have, made bad decisions, spent money too easily, and was entirely too selfish to be raising three children. However, she was not a bad mother. She was human and did what humans do. Some of her choices were far from the best, but she loved the three of us more fiercely than you could ever fucking know and sacrificed her life and her dreams to raise us.

Did you know that she wanted to be an archeologist? I didn't think you did. You don't know jackshit about her. You don't know jackshit about our brother. And you certainly don't know jackshit about me.

All you know is your own bitter pain and deluded jealousy. Yes, there are people in this world who have the things you want. Our mother did not impede you from having them. You did. Free will is a marvelous thing, you asshole. Telling me that it doesn't exist changes nothing. You made your own decisions. No one pushed you into them.

Not only that, but your life isn't that fucking bad. You have your own business. You have two incredibly intelligent children who are excelling in college and will hopefully go on to be far better than you. Your life is not "wasted" because you don't have a summer home on the beach and the ability to jetset away for vacations twice a year. Your childrens' lives are also not wasted if, when they are completely grown, they don't have these things either.

And our brother's life isn't a washout because he never got his high school diploma. He's content with the kind of person he is and struggles to further himself in his career. He's smarter then you, sometimes even smarter then me and I'm the smartest out of the three of us. He may not have all the things you so dearly wish you had, but he's not an unhappy or covetous individual. Unlike some other people I could name.

Furthermore, we were not ABUSED in any way, shape or form. And to say so is ridiculous and asinine. Do you even know what abuse means? Are you able to see far enough past your own nose to realize exactly how much our mother really did for us?

You sit there and have the gall to ask me why I've gotten so defensive about this. Why am I reacting like this? Because our mother is DEAD. She died, her body riddled with cancer, in a shithole nursing home with me holding her hand to my lips and our brother sitting at the foot of the bed. Where were you?

Where were you when our brother and I got the news that the mass in her small intestines was a malignant tumour and it had ruptured? Where were you when she was told that if she didn't get a second round of chemo in the next handful of months, she'd be dead before the year was out? Where were you when she shit herself in the car on the way home from the oncologist's because of the chemotherapy? Where were you when she puked up everything she'd finally been able to force herself to eat? Where were you when she cried in the middle of the night because she was so scared? Where were you during the countless blood tests, PET scans and surgeries? Where were you when she realized she was never going to walk again? Where were you when she realized she was never coming home?

The woman who gave the three of us life is gone forever and you have nothing but bad things to say about her? Count yourself lucky that I only raised my voice slightly above speaking level and said 'walk it off, you fucking nancy'. Be thankful that all I did was go into a rant about how none of us are victims. Be fucking glad, eldest brother of mine, that I didn't break an ashtray over your thankless skull.

You tell me that I'm a carbon copy of her?
I'm proud of it.

I'd rather be a strong, hard-headed, selfish woman who's made too many mistakes than a piss-and-moaning, self-righteous, sour old man who can't see the forest for the 'could have' and 'should have' regets that he continually conjures up. I can only hope that you eventually pull your head out of your ass because I don't want your children winding up holding hatred and disdain for you.

Despite how angry you make me, I don't hate you. I used to, but not anymore. I've moved on from that.

That moving on thing? I suggest you try it. It's amazing how one's mind clears when one doesn't walk around with so much regret and bitterness in their heart.

Your sister,
thejunipertree: (Default)
Dear Emperor Nympho,

While you know there is nothing I enjoy more than cleaning up your vomit, could you possibly try to not do it as much? Seriously. This twice a day shit has really got to stop. And if you can't manage to stop puking, could you maybe try to not do it on the carpet so much? I rent this place and as you well know, rentals generally come with light tan carpeting.

Why? I've no earthly fucking idea, but the point of the matter is that cleaning orange cat hork out of a beige carpet is an exercise in hellish futility.


Is this about me standing over you and making loud hurling noises while you're throwing up? Because if it is, I can stop that, you know. I scratch your back, you don't throw up all over the rug. Are we cool?
thejunipertree: (sunlight wakes me up)
Dear Lewis Black:

This letter is to officially inform you that you are soon to be my new boyfriend. Please do not be alarmed or call the police when I show up on your doorstep with a bottle of bourbon and a suitcase full of various toys of a sexual nature.

I also must ask that in the event you receive any angry letters or phone calls from my current boyfriend, you ignore said communication because he does not understand my burning love for you or my need to do dirty, naked things to you.

With all my heart,
thejunipertree: (sequin tears)
Dear New Orleans:

Please pull through this.

You're one of two cities I have visited that I ever felt truly at home in and I'm not allowed, by virtue of the immigration powers that be, into the other one anymore.

Also, I've got some serious debts that need to be repaid this Fet Gede and they can only be accomplished with your continuing existence.


Additionally, if you could pass a message on to God for me stating that I'd like [ profile] docbrite's cats to all be ok, I'd appreciate that a lot.
thejunipertree: (love the shark)
Dear L'Oreal,

How is it that my eyebrows, coaxed into perfect arches with your Le Kohl eyeliner (in onyx), manage to not only stay on during a knife fight, but also through-out the subsequent all-night-hanging-out-at-the-police-station? Your product is truly amazing and I have been singing its praises to everyone who will listen.

Never in my life have I experienced such staying power, not even with MAC. Your product is truly superior.

Your humble servant,


Don't get too cocky.
I still plan on using MAC for everything else.
thejunipertree: (RAWR!)
Dear Universe,

It's mildly amusing when you steal something from me and hide it away, making me believe it's gone forever so that I have to go out and buy a replacement, only to have me find said lost object not two months later.

It's not so fucking funny when you do it more than once.

Knock it off. Really.
I fucking mean it this time.

thejunipertree: (RAWR!)
Dear Sir/Madame:

If I don't get to see the ocean, and right quick, I am going to SUE. I am going to SUE EVERYBODY.

This photograph:

(the Engineer, me, and Miss Janette)

is from the last time I was able to go. It was two years ago. Two years since I have been able to touch seawater and/or shout profanity at the dolphins is completely unacceptable. I would recommend that this must be remedied, post haste.


one pissed-off little Goth girl
thejunipertree: (Default)
Dear the-five-felines-what-share-this-apartment-with-me,

I love you guys dearly, you know this. After all, I spend retarded amounts of money on your food and care.

However, could you knock it off with the kitty-cat rodeo in my bed at three in the morning?
Honestly. It's getting old.


And to the one of you who likes to put his face in my face while I'm sleeping and then endlessly lick his lips, quit it.
You know who you are.
thejunipertree: (wobble)
Dear Mom,

I just realized that I can't remember how your voice sounded anymore. It's only been 52 days.

I miss you so fucking much, I don't know what to do sometimes.

thejunipertree: (Default)
Dear Nick Cave,

I don't care if it appears you are starting to lose your hair, I still think you're Jesus Christ.


Just so you know, that marriage proposal is still open.
I'm just saying.


thejunipertree: (Default)

January 2011

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