As you know, your daughter left me last night. Do you realize just what kind of a snakecunt that privileged little princess-bitch is? She left me even though I'm at my lowest point in my entire life. I can't get a job no matter how many interviews you line up with your contacts. I spend literally 7 hours a day perusing shemale pornography. And I've become horribly depressed after that hack you recommended not only botched my gum surgery but insinuated that my "claim" of infection was "entirely fabricated." Yeah, world class periodontist my ass. And I feel distressed, because I've put on about 70 pounds since college. By the way, I think shemales are underrated and anyone who says you can't be heterosexual and attracted to them is spewing forth calumny. So here I am, failing so disastrously at life, and Jenny picks this moment, this hellish moment when I've never been more pathetic, to drop the "I don't want to spend the rest of my life with you" bomb? Wow. Classy dame you spawned, Kinbote.
Don't think this isn't hard. I know we've become great friends over the years. You converted a garage for me to live in and you generously paid for that retainer that I know cost more than retainers should cost. Incidentally, Jenny's claim that I spent your $900 all on coke is hogwash. That retainer was a veritable art-piece. A potential collector's item down the line, and you and I know it. We've always had a special bond, though. I remember how, the first time we met, before you had a good read on me, you showered me with the most charismatic, charming, engaging stories all about your life and life itself. After that night, I noticed how our entire communication consisted of maybe seventeen mostly monosyllabic sentences. And obviously that's what true friendship's really about. Not about fake gregarious posturing, but about that place where you get comfortable enough to be silent. We kind of had this cool unspoken connection, and I hope that can continue. Also, thanks for not inviting me to that Thanksgiving meal thing today. I heard about the guests. Mostly "friends" you've met in like the last year. It would have been awkward to have been lumped in with those pseudo-friends, so I appreciate that.
If there's any way you can make Jenny come back to me, please help. Her reasons for leaving make no sense. One big thing was my "obsession" with Jason Congdon and Daniel Munz. She claimed I "embarrassed her to death" at her CBS office party when I, a little tipsy, walked up to her boss and said, "I dream a world where girls memorize the provenance of every hair on Congdon's sack." It's called humor. Take a look at my blog. It's not an obsession but a comedic device. Jenny had the nerve to accuse me of doing Congdon impressions when we were picking out her cousin Ramona's casket, and that is absolutely false. Jenny's claim that I traced the letters M U N Z on her clitoris during cunilingus does possess veracity. Notwithstanding, I don't know how she could have possibly determined that, and even if she somehow knew at the time, it was just a nervous tick thing anyway.
Can you not see that this is all an absurd game? I don't demand that we never eat at non Fresh-Mex places because I'm insane. I do it because I'm funny. And artistic. I didn't sell our plasma and buy that 15 incher from Costco because I actually wanted it. I'm a technophile, mind you. And I'm black. What kind of nigris africanis willingly gives up something flashy for something that looks less expensive? An experimental artist one. It's all part of my thing. Just like when I got that Serbian drifter to come over and paid her money to say, for literally 9 hours straight that day Jenny's cousin Ramona died: "Hi, I'm Dan Berger. I'm a New York Jew-bastard." She said it like one of those dolls you pull the string on, and it was exquisite. Jenny's claim that said Serbian drifter stole her sapphire earrings that day is totally unjust, by the way, as there is no way of proving that beyond a reasonable doubt. No eye witnesses. No fingerprints. Nothing.
So here I am. Begging for your assistance. I've never dated a girl as attractive as Jenny. I've never dated another girl I've been intimate with. I only like white girls, but most white girls with predilections for black men make exceptions when it comes to me. I need to hold onto her. And how could she do better than someone as brilliant as me? You know how I've been occasionally guest posting on that blog you made? Well, some Yale undergraduates linked me to their blog group, and one of my posts was recently listed as one of the top 20 Yale blogosphere posts of all time. Top twenty. Indeed. Out of every post ever. I've read that post about me on Death/Media around 150 times. It's really well written and is itself deserving of the top 20 honor. I told all of this to Jenny. She replied that one Arlo Harshenstein deemed my work limply one-dimensional. I have reason to believe Jenny herself posted under that name.
Forgive me for my rambling. Forgive me for my thousand thoughts of melancholy too, for I am alone in the world now. Alone in your converted garage. A fake Congdon I.D. on the bare mattress. Copies of my Munz books planted in the old oak bookcase. On the floor, fake blonde pubic hairs I wove out of wool in underpants whose band I wrote "J.C." on. Immortalized Stillicide on my monitor always and forevermore. Just me here. Lester, here. Just staring out my window at the stars, thinking about the nature of reality and myself. Hmm, a quivering nebula over here. Oh, a darting comet over there. Ahh, a treacherous girl over yon. In my head. Once in my heart. I wonder, Kinbote, how a world as profound as ours has room for a creature as base as the homo sapien whore.
I received my credit card statement today, and I was wondering if you were going to continue to supplement its payment a little even if Jenny doesn't come back to me. If you do intend to help, let VISA know that I dispute the November 11th $50 charge from trannyheaven.com. Despite casual proof to the contrary within this very letter, I never made any such purchase.