I found this site about a year ago I think and I just love it. Wanted to share a couple of my favourites with you all.
AN OPEN LETTER TOMY LOST BIKINI BRA.
September 6, 2006
Dearest Lost Bikini Bra,
I wish I had the words to tell you how keenly I miss you
We met at a hole-in-the-wall togs shop in Bondi Beach, Australia. The woman behind the counter took in my 34Ds with the cool appraising eye of a jeweler.
"This is what you need," she told me flatly. "It's this one or nothing."
You were a feat of engineering to rival the Great Pyramids. Your genius was in your simplicity. With two wires, two teeny strings, and two triangles of cloth, you and I violated the law of gravity together. Fuck off, Mr. Newton. These apples are never falling down.
Look, Lost Bikini Bra, I don't hate my body, but let's be realistic: love handles here, a bit extra on the tummy there, and breasts that haven't been able to pass the pencil test since junior high. But when you were with me ... oh, boy, were my tits perfect. Nestled so close against my tenderest bits, you made me look and feel so sexy, like nothing and nobody had ever done before.
Sometimes, if I was feeling particularly cheeky, I would let a boy untie you before I sunbathed. They always liked that part. Then you would lie by my side as the warm Australian sun slowly turned my nipples from pink to brown and erased the white marks where your strings caressed my neck.
When I took you home to Texas, we swam through clear springs and rivers together, and you still looked as good as the day we found each other, unmarred by a single snag or fade.
And then ... oh, it's all my fault, Bikini darling. I should have taken better care of you.
My ex-boyfriend says he lost you in the move. A likely story. Where are you now? In a dark U-Haul box, stuffed between that ridiculous automatic bread maker and last year's bank statements? Or are you stashed guiltily in a sock drawer, stiffened and stained by his sticky secret juices? Oh, that sick bastard. I don't know which scenario is more heart-wrenching: you forgotten or you defiled. At least in the latter you're getting a bit of attention.
You deserve my honesty: I went shopping for a new bathing suit yesterday. It's not that I wanted to replace you, darling, but I gave up hope that we'd ever be reunited. Can somebody tell me why it's so damn difficult to find a reasonably sexy bikini that fits me? Talk about four torturous hours of my life that I'll never get back—much like my $100, which is also gone for good. Your replacement will do in a pinch, but it doesn't hold a candle to your glory.
I have a photo of you that sums up how right we were for each other. You and me on the purest white sands of Sydney's Pacific coast. We look so happy together, and, holy shit, did you make my tits look good.
So goodbye forever, my darling Lost Bikini Bra. We'll always have Australia.
Jen BiundoAustin, Texas
- - - -
AN OPEN LETTERTO THE LEADEROF THE ANT NATIONRESIDING IN MY BATHROOM.
July 20, 2005
Dear Sir or Madam,
We've been warring for nearly a year now. Although my side hasn't lost a single life, let me be the first to say it: it is time to put a stop to the fighting.
I've emptied bottles of anti-ant spray and tolerated the resulting offensive odor. I've laid out bait-style poisons, which are specifically designed to trick your populace into carrying fatal toxins to your very own door, but your people consistently evade them. Eventually they organize parades that march directly around the deadly morsels in mockery of my attempts. I admit, the hyperintelligence of your military leaders is baffling. Thus, I've resorted to a multi-pronged and less obvious attack strategy: I've maintained tidiness, I've swatted at your troops with newspapers, I've smashed them one by one with my mighty thumbs, I've carpet-bombed them with Windex, I've blown them out the window with my breath of fire as they crawled across the neighboring tiles. I've even left mass graves open so that you might recognize what devastating havoc I'm capable of delivering.
Still, you send recon teams out. I spot them regularly, sometimes a team of two or three, sometimes a lone wolf crawling across the floor or the shower walls.
The leader of such a tenacious tribe must be both very proud and very wise. It is my sincere hope that you can set aside your pride and exercise your wisdom to the fullest extent for the purposes of this conversation. The cycle of violence can't continue. You must withdraw every last one of your kind from my apartment.
It's not fair. I pay rent. Don't give me any crap about being indigenous. It's not about that. The comparisons you will surely draw upon are nonsensical and you know it. You are ants. Don't make this something it's not. Have some couth.
Do not take my suggestion of peace as a sign of weakness. If you don't vacate the premises, I will continue to crush you and your soldiers on sight, without mercy or hesitation. My heart is remorseless at the thought of the lives I've destroyed and the families I've broken.
Annoyance is the driving force behind my hope of armistice. I grow tired of spotting your spies creeping around on the tiled shower walls as I stand in the buff. The endless removal of your dead after battle wears on my nerves. You make me late some mornings because I get lost in thought about our clash.
But my biggest frustration, the reason I am graying, lies in the question of purpose. Why do you want to be in my bathroom? What do you seek? There is no food there! Not a morsel. Were you to attack my kitchen, attempt a coup there, I would kill you with the same abandon, but I might be more understanding of your plight. Maybe I would be quicker to draft a solution to win the peace. Perhaps I would take to eating out more often, despite my ongoing fiscal crisis. As the situation is, though, there's not much I can do. I need to habitually bathe. I'm unmovable on this matter. It's not really even my choice.
Frankly, for several months I assumed I was dealing with madmen. But you must have some goal; your efforts surely have a purpose. When your troops tread across these countertops and tiles, they are consistently killed. Even a loony would realize that by now. Your ants are dying for something. Please, pray tell, what is it? Perhaps I will willingly surrender it to you if you help me to understand.
I'm reaching out here. Let's put an end to this.
Joshua W. JacksonPresident of the Bathroom