& my family wouldn’t approve of me calling my first husband a motherfucker, especially if he became the father of my children. If we weren't careful and had babies and didn't eat them up with our Cheerios. Then he would be a motherfucker, unless he divorced me or wouldn’t fuck me for what pregnancy’d done to my body…
He’s the first author that’s sent me a book; I’m a book receiving virgin.
Oh, Sam, be good with/to me.
And what if I got with every other author who personally sent me a book. That would make me a bookslut & I wouldn’t want to be that, now, would I?
Or, if I married Sam, I wouldn’t know the delights of getting other books in the mail. Going to my mailbox in my kimono, caressing the hard steel cylinderness of it, daring to put my hand on the door, rubbing it, hoping…
I cannot look at my mailbox without thinking of penises now.
I cannot look at my box w/out thinking about penises, either.
My sister just wants me to marry Sam Pink for his last name; she wants us to have a daughter and name her “Pretty.”
Middle name: “In.”
Sam Pink left his return address on the package. Maybe he wants me to stalk him. My friend who lives in Milwaukee says he'll stalk him for me. Stalking by proxy. But, that friend's a writer, too, and what if he writes a book about his proxy stalking days? What if he makes millions and then doesn't even send me a copy so I can't get with him?
My mama says you should never stalk someone you haven't fucked or at least touched once. You gots to know if it's worth it.
& it might not even be Sam Pink's address. It might be a Port-o-Potty or a WalMarts or a gangster's moll's penthouse, and Jennifer Tilly and I'd get all dirtylike like in Bound and kill the gangsters and then I'd have blood on my hands and I'm not sure if I want to be a gangster killer yet.
Yours only,
Ry
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