Somebody Give This Boy A Job

The Flava

The following is a message to my youngest brother, Glenn:

There is more to life than typing "OMG! ROTFLMAO!" in your room 24 hours a day. Get a job and type "OMG! ROTFLMAO!" from your cubicle like the rest of us. That is all, thank you.

Now, for the rest of you, I must confess that procrastination has done me in again. You may recall some time ago I mentioned that I love reading the Impersonals in the Improper Bostonian. (by the way, if you follow that link, please ignore in the comments section where I promise to post the second part of Nick and Hedie's wedding story. Holy crap, it's almost their anniversary!)

Last week's issue had a great letter in it. I wanted to write it down, but I kept putting it off. When I finally sat down to write it last night, the magazine was missing. My parents' house has looked like a refugee camp since we unceremoniously packed up our things and started squatting there in November. And it's been even worse the past few days with guys working on the roof and another group coming in two weeks to waterproof the basement. I sifted through every pile of junk I could find, but came out empty handed. It probably went out to be recycled last week, and they've already restocked the dispensers with the new issue.

The letter was from some poor heartbroken guy who had been done wrong by a woman. Or had done wrong by her, I forget which. But he was pretty depressed. He wrote this melancholy love letter that could easily double as a suicide note. Again, details would have been helpful here, but all you really need to know is that this wasn't some light-hearted piece of fluff. This was some serious stuff he was sharing with the free-magazine-reading populace of Boston. It was just a short paragraph, but the guy really poured his heart and soul into it. And then, after all that, he signed it "jbagadonuts." Yeah.

I almost felt bad for laughing, but really, Joey Bag O Donuts? Who would sign something like that "jbagadonuts?" It's particularly funny to me, since I've constantly been getting hits on one of my old posts ever since Mike Birbiglia linked to it in a story about his brother. That's right, every day a bunch of people click on the link in his story, quickly lose interest and immediately close out of it again. In a way, I've become sort of a celebrity. At least by VH1 standards, which I believe defines celebrity as "anyone known by more than three people outside of their friends and family." Actually, by those standards, pretty much everyone who reads this blog is a celebrity. So I guess I'll just sit by the phone and wait for the call to appear in next Surreal Life, along with Al Roker's third cousin and that guy from the Micro Machines commercials.


Update!
Okay, I found the magazine. Here's the letter:

Can't Deny It
Laura, I love you. I'm sorry that isn't what you wanted to hear, but it's true. I understand your quest, but I hope you don't lose sight of what's important, especially when it comes to matters of the heart. If you say you don't love me anymore, I hope you truly mean it. I'd rather spent the rest of my days remember ing how I lost a love so true, than deny its existence to spare the wants ot thoughts of others. You're an incredibly beautiful person. Thanks for the memories.
--Jbagadonuts