Dear Justin Bieber,

i, like many others, forget how to spell your name from time to time, erroneously switching the i and the e. my sister would accuse me of phony fandom, but i beg to differ; considering there's a whole biography written about you which incorrectly spells your name. i checked my itunes to make sure i got the spelling right this time.

i am writing to inform you of how you were unwittingly involved in an unfortunate turn of events that led to a grave detriment of my education and sanity.

one fateful day, while perched on the wall alongside the Seine River and The Notre Dame Cathedral, and innocently yet solemnly meditating on thoughts of depth and substance, an artless associate of mine on this study abroad (who will remain nameless) positioned herself next to me while humming the tune of "Love Me." from that pivotal moment on, my once profound and productive thinking was turned to mush. i instantly felt a fatuous longing for the plush comfort of the squishy beige couch in the family den where i could re-watch unnecessarily Justin Bieber: Never Say Never for a third time and sing along to all of your hypnotic tunes. now, as I am back in Texas, sunk deep between the cushions of this potato incubator and with the flat screen that i am glued to mocking me with the monotony of summer in the suburbs, i regret the loss of that precious ambient music of accordions, fluttering pigeons, and Gregorian chanting which were taken for granted and drowned out by an incessant "baby, baby, baby ohhh" in my head. Annnnd the remaining three weeks of my European sojourn were accompanied by a nonstop soundtrack of your candied crooning. Even a discussion of neoclassical architecture versus baroque, was, for me, clouded by the strains of "Never Say Never" as it echoed through my thoughts.

however, i'm lovin the new hair and also the shoes you wear. i'd rock kicks like that more often if i wasn't apprehensive about giving males or anyone of the butch/femme persuasion the wrong idea. maybe if i found a pair with a floral pattern i could pull it off.

keep doing what you do, and this time i'll take the blame for my remorseful circumstance.

Star-struck,

Holly (don't need no Starbucks)

Dear Peers,

a satirical (and simultaneously self-deprecating) letter of slightly (only slightly) exaggerated "confessions":

sometimes i have to assure myself by blogging to make sure my life is cool and interesting and kinda "indie" or something like that.

sometimes i have to absolve myself by confessing really weird thoughts and loser-y aspects of my lifestyle to people who are close to me to make sure they still love me (or even to people i don't know very well, to check if i am still socially-acceptable somehow).

sometimes i have to comfort myself by taking fuzzy pictures of myself (especially when my skin looks bad/bad hair day/feeling fat day) on photobooth to make sure i'm not as ugly as i feel.

sometimes i have to console myself by thinking about people who are really depressed, or who are suicidal, or in mourning, or really poor, or even/almost homeless to make sure i'm actually NOT depressed.

sometimes i have to sabotage myself by eating something of ridiculously high caloric value to make sure i don't really care that i'm not model thin.

sometimes i have to legitimize myself by making a mile-long to do list to make sure there are actually things in my life that really need to get done.

sometimes i have to prove myself by being late, sleeping in, or not doing anything to make sure i have control over my commitments (and that they don't have control over me).

sometimes i have to be satirical to make sure that i feel like people can't judge me (it's called pretend, people. judgment is inevitable).

sometimes i have to stretch myself to do and say nice things to make sure i can still be a good person.

sometimes i have to embarrass myself over the internet to make sure i'm not the only one who feels this way.

sometimes i have to validate myself by writing crazy thoughts down at 2 in the morning (and then seeing if i still feel the same way months later....hence this letter).

sometimes you smirk at people (for being so sincere) to make sure you're cooler than they are.

you can do that, or you can admit that you have ways of masking your own insecurities.

Keep it real,

Holly

Dear Nuzzle,

All dogs go to heaven. So I know where you are, and you better not fart on anyone!

I remember riding in the car and then seeing you for the first time. When Pawpaw and Clodene took us to pick you up and it was a secret surprise. Mommy and Daddy called home we told them "We got a puppy!" They were vacationing in Mexico. Which meant they weren't as delighted as baby Emily and I at your arrival into our family. But I'm sure your little sparkling eyes and stubby wiggly tail melted their hearts.

You were so spry and perky as a puppy, and I don't think you realized at the time that you were a dog. You tried so hard to be a vigilant guard of our yard, yapping and hopping up and down on your hind legs, day-in and day-out. Those squirrels snickered and taunted you from the trees for years. It was because of you that Mommy and Malanka brought out their shotguns one day and fired at those rascally bullies.

I'm sorry I teased you too, when I'd stand on the diving board and act like I was going to jump in. You didn't like that. I just couldn't help myself, because it was so funny to see you get your panties in such a twist.

Mommy was the one who was always there for you. She was your very best friend, and when I sat next to her while we watched American Idol, you'd always get really jealous and then squeeze between us.

The time you got attacked by our neighbor's wolf-dog was one of the most terrifying and gruesome experiences I've had.

Even with your smelly fish breath, I loved that you'd cuddle up next to me in bed when I'd come home from Utah.

You lived a full life, making it into your nineties. And when you died today, everyone cried. Even Daddy.

I hope you're getting lots of watermelon and cinnamon bread up there. I know Pawpaw's probably glad to see his favorite schnauzer, and I hope Granny's giving you a nice neck-scratch.

Rest In Pieces of Bacon,

Holly

Dear Louis XIV,

I happened to stop by your house today, and I was a little disappointed. It could have been a bit bigger, and there weren't enough mirrors for my taste. Also, you went a little overboard on the crown-moulding, don't you think?

But I think you'd be pleased with the abstract rusty pile of metal they added in front of your lake. They call it "art," and it's that junky-chic style that I know was always more to your liking. Next time, just add one more acre of those cool square trees and you'll be good to go.

Shine on.

And may I always live to serve you and your crown,

Holly

Dear Man on the Metro,

At first, I was flattered by the glance you gave me from inside the Metro car as I walked towards the gap. I mean, I realize I was drawing a lot of attention to myself with that bright pink hat today. Forgive a girl for feeling frivolous every once in a while.

Yes, I was very flattered, initially, because you seemed like a handsome fellow, and your type always gets more slack in that department than creepy-looking men. It may not be their fault that their features are not so well-formed, but somehow it's just less disconcerting to receive flirty glances from pretty people. It's the beady eyes one must be wary of.

Well, Man on the Metro, I felt you continuing to look as I walked into the train, and that is why I deliberately sat on the other side of the doors: to resist a temptation to peer at you myself from behind my French Lit. book. What can I say, you were also wearing a very lovely shade of pink.

However, you foiled my plan when you stood up. Why did you stand up? There were plenty of open chairs. Maybe you just needed to stretch your legs for the next 10 stops? Or was it your arms that had no room? Were you really flexing them as you continued to ogle me from the corner of the Metro car, for the next twenty minutes?

That is when I felt that your coquetry quickly proceeded from subtle to scary. And so, I am writing to request--upon your next detection of a naïve American girl--that you please exercise consideration and remain seated. Or stare less. It really did give me a fright when you followed me off the train.

Warmest Regards (figurative only),

Holly

actually...

i use tumbler, and that's where my art blog is (just pics w/comments..not very cool). but i've got a google account, and i have a couple friends with blogspot blogs, so that's why i started one here.

http://ampersandit.tumblr.com/