Norah

Justin

Justin was a jerk.

And I don’t mean that in a ‘oh, he was an ass to other people’ kind of way. The kid was a grade A prick. However, I seemed to be the only one on the receiving end of his asshole tendencies.

You name it, he did it. He tore the heads off my barbies. He’d steal my candy. He pushed me off my bike countless times. One time, the douche even made me eat a fucking worm.

And what did I do in return, you ask?

Not a god damn thing. Anytime I tried to even remotely retaliate, I got caught. Or, the asshat managed to weasel his way out of the whole thing.

I spent half of one summer plotting my revenge on that curly haired bastard. It was the perfect plan, really. Atleast it was in my 9 year old brain, anyway.

My older sister had been suspended from school for putting eye drops in an ex-boyfriends drink. (in case you didn’t know… ingesting eye drops leads to some serious time on the porcelain throne.)

I saved my allowance money for two weeks and bought the eye drops, then made my way to the general store. I bought two snocones. One for me, and one for my archenemies, cleverly laced with eye drops, of course. I planned to offer the snocone as a truce. Cause let’s face it… it’s impossible to be mean to someone who’s just bought you a snocone.

I rode my bike all the way to Justin’s house, balancing those damn snocones.

When I finally got to the house, Justin was in the middle of building a fort with that pint sized douche, Trace. (Oh yes… Justin had a sidekick to help with every bit of the torment he inflicted on me.)

I marched right up to that fort, presented the half-melted snocone to Justin and silently prayed that he’d shit his pants right there in front of me.

You know what the asshole did? Gave the damn thing to Trace.

Granted, I wish it would have been Justin sprinting to the bathroom, but getting even with Trace was a pretty decent consolation prize.

Now, you’d think somewhere along the line, Justin would have outgrown the smart ass, bastard kid thing. However, no such luck.

He treated me like absolute shit until the day he left for Florida, to be on that lame ass kids show.

I know a lot of people think the whole town viewed him as some kind of hero, like he was doing something to put our little Podunk no where’s ville on the map.

Wrong again.

I mean, sure… we all rushed home from school to watch the show, but there was no form of hero worship going on. We watched, just for the sheer joy of making fun of him as he paraded around dressed like some kind of circus freak, singing stupid songs.

The fact that it was broadcast nationwide made it that much funnier.

Of course, the show inevitably ended, and Justin came back home. He didn’t get some kind of prodigal son welcome either. As a matter of fact, nobody really gave a shit.

Really, life was exactly the same as it’d always been. Justin and Trace still mocked me. I still wished I could light both of them on fire.

Then, word got around that Justin was going to Europe to join some band. Since he was actually leaving the country, this was a pretty big deal. There were going away parties, crying girls… the whole nine yards.

I was just happy there’d be a whole ocean separating us, and I made no effort to mask that emotion. I told anybody who’d listen how excited I was to possibly be rid of him for good.

So, I’m sure you’ll understand my surprise when the idiot showed up at my house the morning of his departure, asking me to write him while he was away.

Write him.

I figured that sort of thing died out with the 1800’s. So naturally, I laughed at him, told him I hoped his plane crashed, and slammed the door in his face.

It took a month’s worth of letters before I finally broke down and wrote him back.

And I haven’t stopped since.

April 1st, 1996

Dear Norah,

Seeing as how I asked you to write, and it’s been three weeks, and you haven’t yet… I figured I’d start.

I’m not really sure where we are today, but nobody speaks English, and everything smells like hot dogs. Which basically means, everything smells like Trace. The buildings look pretty cool though. I thought about taking some pictures and sending them, but that’s really too much effort when I’m just writing to you.

The other guys in the group are all pretty awesome. Can’t really see you getting along with them though since ya know… they’re cool, and you’re… well… not.

Being here is kind of weird. I mean, we’re busy most of the time, which is good. But, when we’re done recording, we mostly just sit around and play video games. Momma seems to be having fun though. She goes shopping with Lance’s mom a lot. They found some weird bookstore the other day, Momma said it reminded her of you. So, that means it was probably really small and boring.

So anyway, we’re supposed to film a music video next week. That should be pretty cool. I gotta go back to work now, so… write me back.

-J

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April 10th, 1996

Dear Norah,

Thanks for writing me back. (Note the sarcasm.)

I guess I can kind of understand why you wouldn’t. I haven’t always been very nice to you. Really… I’m not even sure why I’m doing this. Momma told me it’d be a good idea to keep in touch with people from home. Something about keeping me grounded or whatever.

I don’t think I need to be grounded though, ya know? We don’t know what’s gonna happen with the group, so why do I need to worry about getting an ego now?

My momma’s kinda crazy. But you know that already. Remember the time she busted my ass in front of the whole street for putting gum in your hair? I’m sure you really enjoyed that.

In case you’re wondering… the music video shoot a went really well. We should get to see the actual video pretty soon. I’m not really sure when the album will be finished though. Hopefully soon, cause sitting around in studios all the time is starting to get really, really boring.

Believe it or not, I kinda miss Shelby Forrest, and Trace, and my dog, and my bed… and yeah, I miss your goofy ass too. Well… I’m not sure if I miss you, or if I miss having somebody to harass.

Ya know… I’d really appreciate it if you wrote back. Atleast let me know you’re still alive or something.

Tell everybody at school I said hi.

-JT

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April 18th, 1996

Norah,

You’re really starting to piss me off. I guess I could just call, but Momma would kill me if she sees a charge for a long distance call, and I don’t think you’re worth dying over.

Write me back… please?

-Justin

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April 25th, 1996

To Norah, the possibly illiterate girl who hates me,

That’s the conclusion I’ve come to, ya know. I’ve decided you’re not writing back because you can’t read.

I’m not going to judge you for it. Lots of kids can’t read. Maybe when I’m rich and famous, I’ll start a charity for it. I’ll send a teacher to your house and they can teach you how to read. Then, you’ll be forever in my debt, and be my slave for life. I really like that idea.

I called Trace the other day. He said you ignore him in the halls at school and stay in your house all the time. I guess I wouldn’t go outside if I couldn’t read either.

Maybe when the letters come you can give them to your mom, and she can read them to you. Then you can dictate to her and she can write your responses. I’ll even pretend that I didn’t tell you to do that, and that you’re the one doing the actual writing.

You know what… I think I need to get some sleep. If you learn how to read by the time you get this, write me back.

-JRT

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May 1st, 1996

Norah,

Fine, I give up. This will be the last letter I send. Try not to celebrate too much.

I’ll be honest… I miss home, a lot. Don’t get me wrong, I love being here and I love what I’m doing, but I really hate being so far away from everything. I thought hearing from someone back home would help me feel like I wasn’t missing out on everything.

But, since you won’t write me back, I’m starting to feel even more homesick. And I don’t know why… it’s not like we’re even friends. I guess I just like fighting with you. Well… I guess you can’t really call it fighting. I mostly give you shit, and you just take it. So I’m sure you’ll be glad to know that as the youngest guy in the group, I’m the one who catches all the shit now.

They make fun of my hair a lot, and I don’t know why. My hair is awesome, at least that’s what all the girls back home told me. They crack on my voice too. Honestly, they make fun of everything about me. I really liked all of them at first, but I don’t think I do anymore.

I guess I’m trying to say, I finally know how you felt when we were little. Anyway, I won’t bug you anymore. Hope school’s going ok and everything.

-Justin

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May 17th, 1996

Justin,

Alright you whiney brat… here’s a stupid letter. I hope you know just how lame ass this is. There’s a telephone literally two feet away from me. If you wanted to talk to me so badly, you could have just called. Although, I doubt I would have answered. As I’m sure you’re aware, I don’t really like you.

I don’t know why you feel the need to explain all your music nonsense to me. I don’t care. And I also know that you don’t miss me… you miss getting away with being a little jerk.

I have to say… it’s nice to hear that your bandmates make fun of you. Lord knows you deserve it. And no offense… but your hair is not awesome. It kind of looks like a retarded poodle took up residence on your head. As for your voice, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again… when you sing, you sound like a goat on helium. It’s about time karma came back to bite you in the ass.

And you should know by now that Trace is a liar. I’ll bet he didn’t tell you why I’ve been ignoring him at school, did he?

That ugly little troll put a smoke bomb in my locker. My book bag, gym clothes and folders all smelled like eggs for two weeks. The principal called my mom and told her to keep an eye on my personal hygiene. You can tell Trace that I hope a very large animal, with really sharp teeth eats him. Slowly.

As for you… I hope you get volcanic boils all over your body.

Sincerely,

The perfectly literate girl who really does hate you.

July 19th, 1998

Justin,

So… you and your dancing friends were on TV last night. My stupid sister made me watch the entire thing. Honestly, I would have much rather spent that hour watching paint dry… or trying to dig my eyes out with a spoon.

Seriously… who the hell dressed you people? I didn’t realize the theme of your group was space travel. And your friend with the purple pants? Were you all trying to gain fans, or offend people? Based on your outfits, I’m guessing the latter.

The whole town was all up in arms this morning, I hope you know. Everyone seemed fairly impressed with your “accomplishment.” Oh… and every girl you’ve ever known suddenly wants to have your children. Me being the exception, of course. I think even Trace has a crush on you after that.

I just have one question. What in holy hell possessed you to attack your hair with a highlighter? Also… have you even hit puberty yet? It doesn’t sound like it. Or, is this you after puberty? Good god, I hope not… if so… it really sucks to be you, doesn’t?

Yes… I’m aware that that was more than one question. But we’re not talking about me here.

Anyway… as much as I hate to fuel your already enlarged ego… everybody is going apeshit over you.

If I actually liked you, I’d probably feel bad for you the next time you have to come home. I’m pretty sure everybody’s going to attack you. Sadly, they won’t be attempting to hurt you.

Now… I have to go do something much more important than write to you….like watch grass grow or something.

-Norah.

P.S- My idiot sister would like an autographed photo. If you’re able to do that, please put it in a separate envelope. I don’t want to be blinded by your hair.

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July 30th, 1998

September 5th, 1998

Justin,

I went back to school last week, and I saw several things that were quite disturbing.

First… there are girls wearing t-shirts with your face on them. Do you have any idea how terrifying that is at eight in the morning?

They also insist on playing your music constantly. In the halls between classes, during lunch, in the parking lot after school. It never ends. I’m sure you probably get tired of singing the same songs over and over, and let me tell you… I feel your pain. Because I am completely sick of hearing them.

Then… if it wasn’t bad enough that I had to hear you all day, I come home and you’re on TV. My sister obsessively tapes every single thing you do. I honestly don’t understand it. Why does she need to watch you dance and sing, when I’m pretty sure my parents still have videos of you falling off the swing set in our backyard. That would be much more entertaining to watch over and over again.

You know… now that you’re famous, I could probably sell those videos and make a shitload of money. I’m sure there’s some incriminating photos around here somewhere too. I think I’ll pitch this plan to your mother. She’s a smart lady, she’ll see the potential. Plus, I’m sure she has way more things we can use against you.

So… to summarize… the entire school is obsessed with you. And it’s disgusting.

-Norah

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December 15th, 1998

March 12th, 1999

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March 21st, 1999

Justin,

I know you said you wanted me to ignore the last letter, and I tried. I really did. But… Well… I felt bad.

Yes… I have feelings. I was just as surprised as I’m sure you are.

Look… I don’t think you’re being a crybaby. Mostly, I think you’re confused and scared, and in way over your head. But that’s life, you know? Shit gets scary sometimes. I can’t really say I know what you’re going through, because I haven’t got the slightest clue. But… I think it will work out ok.

I mean… is it really the name that makes the group what it is? You know… “a rose by any other name..” and all that jazz. I think you guys will be fine, no matter what happens. I mean, worse comes to worse.. Just change the spelling. NSINK works just as well, doesn’t it?

Ok… I know I’m supposed to be nice and not make fun of you… but come on… this is me we’re talking about. I can’t function properly without insulting you in some way.

Anyway… I think it’s perfectly normal for you to be freaking out a little. But, you need to stay somewhat positive. It’s going to work out. You guys will be fine, and I’m sure crazy girls will still be crying at the sight of your face for years to come. See? I do know how to dish out a compliment every so often! Just don’t plan on it happening again for another 40 years or so.

So, in closing… keep your head up. It’ll work out.

And if you tell anybody what I’m about to say, I will create a voodoo doll in your likeness, but… if you need anything… I’m here.

-Norah

P.S- Trace has decided to grow an afro, just like yours. Please cut your hair so that he’ll do the same. I’m pretty sure there are small animals nesting on his head.

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October 7th, 1999

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November 2nd, 1999

Justin,

I’ll have you know… I went to one party. And it was horrible. The football team got drunk and trashed Adam Baker’s house… his parents grounded him until he’s 50.

After that, I came to the conclusion that high school parties aren’t nearly as cool as they look in the movies. And before you ask… no, I didn’t get drunk. Beer looks like urine, and I have no desire to have anything that even remotely resembles urine anywhere near my mouth. So, there.

As for my college applications, I got into Sarah Lawrence months ago. Not to brag or anything, but it’s a pretty big deal. I got a full art scholarship, and thank god for that… there’s no way my parents would have been able to afford it.

I just figure… if people are dumb enough to buy your shit-tacular albums, they’ll buy my paintings too. Oh… and don’t ask to buy any of them when I’m famous. I refuse to sell my work to obnoxious jackasses.

As for my dating life, it’s none of your damn business. I would be polite and ask about yours, but it’s on the cover of every magazine at the grocery store. I’m assuming Britney got her record deal by agreeing to be seen with you. Cause let’s face it… that’s about the only way that girl was getting a music career.

Oh… could you please stop commenting on my breasts? It’s quite uncomfortable and makes you sound like some kind of pervert.

Anyway… school is going fine. We’re taking our senior trip to D.C, so it should be nice and boring. No surprise there.

Oh! I almost forgot… the other day, my sister inflicted a new kind of torture on me, in the form of a television show called Total Request Live. One of your videos was number two, then there was the other group at number one. The backstreet boys.

After watching both videos back to back, it was pretty easy to see why they were number one, and you weren’t. They sound much better than you. The guys are equally as hideous… well… except for the young blonde one. Feel free to introduce me to him. But anyway… they sounded better. I’m considering buying their new album just so it outsells yours.

-Norah

March 30th, 2000

Justin,

I would like an explanation as to how you and your friends sold two million albums in one week. I mean, I know teenage girls are stupid, but good lord… I fear for the future of the world. Oh… and thank you ever so much for sending me a copy of said album a week before it was out. My sister damn near mauled me trying to get her hands on it.

Believe it or not, I did listen to it. And I laughed. A lot.

I’m not quite sure what exactly a space cowboy is, but it sounds like some horrendous sexual act that would offend millions. And I won’t even comment on that internet sex song. That was just disturbing. It amazes me that people let their children listen to your music, but they get all up in arms about Eminem.

I guess it’s safe to assume that you’ll be going on tour soon, and all I ask is that you don’t send me tickets. I have no desire to watch you dance around like an idiot for two hours. Plus, I might vomit on one of your fans if I have to listen to them confess their undying love for you.

Anyway… school is getting kind of crazy with graduation coming up. However I’m sure Trace will disagree. He seems to think he’ll be able to ride your coattails for the rest of his life, and sadly… he’s probably right.

Other than that, everything’s been pretty uneventful lately.

-Norah

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June 3rd, 2000

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July 17th, 2000

Justin,

You were on TV the other day, so I decided it was probably time to write you back.

First off… just out of curiosity, are you carrying a bedazzler around in your pocket constantly or something? I don’t think I’ve ever seen that many rhinestones on anyone. Except maybe Cher.

Your mother, who I love dearly… is wrong. And Trace, is a goddamn idiot. Ben was helping me tie up some stuff for school. I’m not dating him, and have no plans to start. By the way… exactly why is it that you’re so concerned with my love life? I’m not asking about you and your girlfriend, now am I?

Oh, and I’m not a lesbian, you ass. Although, the sight of you could probably turn any girl into one.

Anyway, I leave for school August 20th, so I’ve started trying to pack up some of my stuff. I honestly don’t know how you do it. How do you know what to take, what to get rid of? I know I won’t have room for everything, but how am I supposed to live without my books? That’s like asking you to live without those stupid bandanas you keep wearing.

The other thing I’m having a really hard time figuring out is how I ended up with so much crap. Books, movies, cds, my old barbies, a bunch of stuff that belonged to my grandmother, and for reasons I will never understand… one of your old ass Fraggle Rock dolls.

If I recall correctly… you tore the head off of my holiday Barbie, so I stole your Fraggle. Even if that’s not the case, I’m sure you deserved it none the less.

I’m debating over whether or not I should sell it on eBay. I heard a piece of your half eaten French toast went for three grand, god only knows what one of your old toys would go for. Hell… the money I could potentially make from your Fraggle could probably pay for school.

I’m sure the only draw to it would be the fact that it once belonged to you, because honestly… it’s ugly as hell.

But you know… as hideous as this thing is, it actually dresses better than you do. And has better hair. Maybe you should dye your hair Fraggle pink. And the vest… you’d definitely need the vest.

Honestly… the Fraggle looks pretty gay. Its tail is pink, for god sakes. Which leads me to wonder… do you keep asking if I’m a lesbian to cover up some hidden issues? It’s ok Justin… you can tell me. I won’t judge, promise.

-Norah

P.S- I’ll probably be at school by the time you write back, so just call my mom for the address.

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September 18th, 2000

September 26th, 2000

Justin,

As much as it pains me to say this… you were right. I enjoyed your show. Probably one of the best comedic stage acts I’ve ever seen.

First off… where the hell was Lance when the memo about gay men being good dancers came out? Cause….wow. I haven’t seen dancing that awful since you were on the mouse show. I mean… was he too busy making friendship bracelets or painting his nails to read it?

The second most disturbing event of the evening was that… thing, you do with your mouth. Number one… child, you are white. And you are from the south. You are not a hardcore rapper from Detroit, ok? If need be, I will have your mother send you some of your baby pictures as proof.

I mean… can you not control your spit or something? You could probably see a doctor for that. I just do not understand why chicks think it’s attractive when you practically mouth rape your microphone.

And you know… why do those girls just stand there and scream for two hours? Isn’t the point of going to a concert to enjoy the music? Well… I take that back. Now that I think about it, they were probably screaming in agony. I mean… it’s bad enough they had to listen to you… but they had to look at you on top of it. I’m kind of amazed there aren’t mass suicides when you perform.

However, I will say one thing for your group. And just hear me out on this… it could be a brilliant marketing strategy for you guys.

Let Jc do all of the singing and dancing by himself. The rest of you can… go play ping pong or something. Let the pretty man handle the entertaining. Feel free to send him along with your next letter. I won’t complain about anything ever again. I promise.

-Norah

P.S- I received quite an interesting letter the other day, and it brought me to one simple conclusion. I like Chris. He sent me a photo of you, circa one week ago, curled up asleep in your bunk, snuggling with your Fraggle. 19 years old, and you still sleep with stuffed animals. And there is photographic evidence. Yep… I definitely like Chris.

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October 4th, 2000

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October 13th, 2000

Justin,

Lighten up, you big baby. Jeez… did somebody shit in your wheaties or something? I was only half serious.

And ok fine… if it makes you feel better and nurses your obviously wounded ego… yes, I enjoyed the show. But if you tell anyone I said that, I swear to god… I will sneak onto your bus and shave your damn afro.

Anyway… I think I’ve finally got myself settled in at school. It took me awhile to learn my way around campus, but I think I’ve got a pretty ok handle on it. My classes for the most part are alright. Except I’m pretty sure one of my art teachers hates me. But, whatever.

My sister called the other day to tell me she’s going to the show when you guys are Memphis. She was none too happy that I got to go for free. So… thank you for giving me something to rub in her face. She totally deserved it.

Alright… I have loads of stuff I need to get done for school, so.. that’s why this is so short.

-Norah

P.S- Before I got to send this…my mom called to tell me my cat died. And I’m not handling it very well. So umm… go easy on me for awhile, alright?

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November 26th, 2000

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December 10th, 2000

Justin,

You know… sometimes, it kind of amazes me that you know exactly when to be nice. It almost leads one to believe you’re a nice person. Which we both know is about as far from the truth as it gets, but… none the less, I appreciate it.

But… if you really want to make me feel better… instead of sending me a new cat, you could just send me Jc. I mean… age and a girlfriend aren’t really huge obstacles. I can work around these things.

And ok fine… I have a crush on one of your bandmates. Mock me all you want. But he’s just so nice to look at.

So anyway… I assume you’re still dating the pop star. How’s that working out?

Oh… your mom called me the other day. Said she wanted to check up on me. I honestly don’t know how such a nice woman gave birth to such a shithead. But… the world is a very confusing place I suppose.

How’s Trace doing? I mean… he’s still alive, right? If you’ve killed him already, it’s ok… I won’t report you to the police or anything. Hell, I’ll probably have a really big party.

I’m hopefully going home for Christmas in a couple weeks. My mom’s planning some huge get together at our house. I’m going to assume you’re invited. If not… forget I mentioned it. And don’t show up at my house on Christmas Eve, ok?

-Norah

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December 23rd, 2000

August 30th, 2002

Dear Justin,

I’m going to tell you a little story. And let me preface by saying, I blame you for all of this. Because there’s a pretty good chance that you encouraged the shitshow I was forced to sit through.

My roommate Whitney is a very out, and very proud lesbian. Which is fine and dandy with me. However, the downside to this is that her taste seems to lead toward blonde popstars with minimal talent. Your girlfriend, for example.

I didn’t say a word when Whitney decorated her side of the apartment with posters of your girlfriend. Ignored the countless times she played her music. (I like that stupid hit me song… so sue me.) However, I draw the line at musicians trying to act.

Come to think of it, that movie is an insult to the art of acting. But Whitney loves it (Personally, I think Whitney is a bit of a masochist, just saying.) Last night, I was forced to watch it. All the way through, and I’m fairly certain it killed at least 60 percent of my brain cells. So, I beg of you… please, please, please, for the sake of humanity… NEVER do a movie.

The one thing to Whitney’s credit though, she seems to think you’re an absolute jackass. She definitely wins points for that.

So anyway… believe it or not, I did go out of my way to watch the VMA’s the other night. I just figured, as much fun as it was to watch you make a fool of yourself with four other people, you on your own would probably be twice the fun. And you sir, did not disappoint.

I just didn’t understand the enormous boom box. Are you so egotistical that you think it takes a boom box of that ridiculous size to play the garbage you call music? The mesh shirt was a nice touch, by the way. I just wish someone would have told you beforehand that you are not Michael Jackson.

Anyway… since you always ask… school’s going really well. I may get some of my work featured in a student art show the end of the semester, so we’ll see how that pans out.

-Norah

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September 16th, 2002

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October 2nd, 2002

Justin,

I’m not sorry. I don‘t feel like listening to you whine about your broken heart. And I have no intention of ever being nice to you. Sound good?

I’m not going to win anything for the art show, you moron. That’s not how this works. But, I will explain this so your simple mind can understand. Being featured in the show is what you equate to winning something. Only 25 students are selected to submit their work, and I was one of them. They’ll display everything in one of the school galleries, people will drink a lot of wine and talk about what they think each piece is saying.

I guess in some weird way, you sort of had something to do with the piece I’m submitting.

It’s not anything special, so don’t let your head inflate any more, ok?

Awhile back, I found a picture of Trace, you and me, sitting on the old swingset in my backyard. So I painted it, minus the three of us. It turned out fairly well, and made me miss home a lot, so… I figured I’d submit it, just to confuse the hell out of all the pretentious jerks who will be viewing it. They’ll have absolutely no idea what it really means, so that should be fun to watch.

Oh… I know I’m not supposed to talk about your break up… but for the love of god man, CALL YOUR MOTHER!

She’s been calling me non-stop, which I usually don’t mind, but she seems to think you’ve killed yourself, or become a total hermit. Either of which would benefit society, but I digress.

I’m sure you won’t listen anyway, but… please don’t send me your album. People already ask why I get mail from such odd locations, and if I open something with that damn album in it before it’s out… that’s a dead giveaway, and quite frankly… I’d prefer it if people don’t know that I actually know you.

-Norah

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November 19th, 2002

February 13th, 2003

Dear Justin,

I have decided it may finally be time for you to seek professional help. Now, we both know I couldn’t care less about your mental or emotional health, but lately, I’ve been seeing some things that I find quite disturbing.

I know I said I wouldn’t bring up your whiney brokenhearted bullshit, but well… I feel like this can’t be ignored any longer.

Your newest video premiered on MTV the other day, and I am mildly concerned. See… I understand that you’re angry and hurt, but well… breaking into someone’s house, peeping on them while they shower, destroying their belongings and humping some random skank in their bed is what you’d call a little insane. And I know a lot of people will find that whole thing poetic. I however, think it’s a cry for help. So, I’ve taken the liberty of looking up some good psychiatrists, and attached their phone numbers.

Now, before you get all pissy… take a deep breath and calm down. And don't even think of plotting revenge on me for that comment either. We're on the third floor and if a window breaks, they usually think someone's trying to kill themselves. Then the cops will be here and wonder why Justin Timberlake is trying to break into Sarah Lawrence. Are you really prepared to answer that? I think not.

So, in the future… when a girl cheats on you, before you lash out, think of the message you’ll be sending. Cause all that videos shows is that when you are scorned, you will stalk your ex. You’ll probably never get laid again after that, I hope you know. Women will just be afraid of you. Which, they should be already, but that’s beside the point.

Anyway… I had a date the other night. I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but I felt compelled to share. He’s in one of my art history classes, and he was nice, and charming and you know what… I was bored shitless. All he wanted to talk about was art, which… ok fine. Yes, I love art, I love talking about it, looking at it, creating it… you’d be hard pressed to find something about art that I don’t love. But, it’s not like that’s all I’ve got to say, you know?

I read, I listen to music, I see movies, I have friends and family, and a whole list of interesting things I could talk about. And this guy didn’t want to hear any of it. So… it goes without saying, but… there won’t be a second date.

Hopefully that will cheer you up some. My pathetic excuses at dating seem to amuse everyone else, so you should be no exception.

-Norah

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March 18th, 2003

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May 1st, 2003

Justin,

Ok… let’s back up for a second. One, there is no specific type that I consider “boyfriend material.” Two, “art school geeks” are the kind of people I like spending my time with, and I happen to be one of them, so… shut your trap.

Also… I think you’re about the last person who should be doling out dating advice at this point, so I’m just gonna leave it at that.

However, I’m glad you’re getting over that mess. That whole whiney/brooding thing doesn’t suit you so well. You aren’t Robert Smith, after all. (You should look into getting your hair done like his though, might improve your looks.)

You know… maybe I don’t want somebody who will put up with my bullshit. Maybe I want someone to just say “Hey Norah… you’re being kind of an asshole right now, so… stop.” Bet you never thought of that, did ya?

I don’t even know why we’re talking about this. Why does the sort of person I do or do not want to date even matter?

So yeah… moving along…

Trace called the other day. Which I was fairly surprised about. And he was actually nice to me. But, I’m beginning to think he doesn’t like you very much. Apparently you give him all sorts of work to do, and he finds this unacceptable. Honestly, the thought of Trace doing any sort of actual work amuses the hell out of me, so keep that up, will you? He’s quite hilarious when he’s whining.

-Norah

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June 15th, 2003

June 30th, 2003

Justin,

Sometimes, I am convinced someone else is writing these stupid ass letters for you. There is absolutely no way the curly haired freak I grew up with is this nice.

And more to that point… since when do you give two shits who deserves me? You hate me, remember?

Do you not recall tearing the heads off of my Barbies, or wrecking my brand new bike, and purposely bending the handlebars? How about the time you and Trace tried to drown me in the pool? Better yet… what about the great hand soap and pizza incident?

I’ll have you know… it took three days for the swelling in my tongue to go down. I mean seriously… what kind of sick, sadistic asshole covers a slice of pizza in liquid hand soap, then feeds it to an eight year old girl?

So… based on those, and the thousands of other times you tortured the hell out of me… it’s not your place to give a shit who I date, or who has the right to date me.

I think your break-up has caused some sort of nervous breakdown. Because you just don’t make sense anymore.

Not that you ever really did, but you know where I’m going with this.

Anyway… can we please talk about something else from this point forward? Because this is all getting very confusing, and I’m not a fan of that feeling.

-Norah

***********************

July 8th, 2003

Norah,

For a girl who’s supposed to be so damn smart, you really are fucking stupid sometimes.

I think I’ve been pretty obvious with this shit, but since you’re either just a god damn retard, or really not picking up on it, I’m going to be as blunt as humanly possible.

I like you. I kind of always have.

All the shit I did to you when we were kids was to get your attention. Being nice never really worked, but acting like a shithead seemed to do the trick, so that’s what I stuck with. And you know… it fucking amazes me that you’ve never figured it out, because it’s been so damn obvious from day one.

I mean… I’m not gonna sit here and say I’m in love with you, or some corny bullshit like that, but there are legitimate feelings behind what I’m saying. And I don’t know what the hell you’ll say, or how you’ll react. I’ve thought up a million different ways to slide this into a letter, or call you, and nothing seemed right.

It was all either too goddamn lame, or it sounded like I was just being an asshole.

So, now that it’s all out in the open… I don’t really know what I’m supposed to say or do. I’d love to be the guy who can just show up and take you on a really kick ass date, but I think we both know that’s not possible.

I mean… I guess you could fly out and see me, or something. But I’ve got this really funny feeling you won’t do that. Hell… there’s a pretty good chance you’re going to think I’m high, laugh, then ignore this all together.

And if that’s what you want to do… I’m not gonna stop ya. I’m not gonna get down on my hands and knees and beg you to go out with me. I’m just going to ask, and you can answer however you damn well please. Which you’d do anyway, but… whatever.

I’m rambling and not making sense now. So… Norah… when the opportunity comes up, I’d like for us to go out. How about it?

-J

July 17th, 2003

Justin,

Of all the ignorant shit I’ve seen come from you over the years, that last letter might be the worst of it. On what freaking planet am I supposed to believe any of that shit? I mean… were you high when you wrote that? No wait, let me guess… to paraphrase, you ‘just love my brain’ right? Fuck off.

Furthermore, what kind of moron asks a girl out through a letter? Or did I miss the memo that said we were still in the 1800’s?

Look… I understand that you’re still upset about being cheated on. And I know people tend to lash out when they’re upset. But, asking me out isn’t the way to go.

Or, maybe you just have post-traumatic stress disorder. That’s it, isn’t it? Being cheated on has caused some sort of mental breakdown, and now you’re projecting your need for female attention onto me. In that case, I’ll let it slide. Just don’t let it happen again, ok?

Then again… this could also be seen as a desperate ploy to get laid, in which case… don’t you have millions of groupie sluts waiting to take care of that for you?

You know what… let’s pretend for a second that I decided to humor you, and actually agree to this. One.. I sincerely doubt we could make it through a single date without wanting to murder each other. Two… what makes you so sure I’d want to be seen in public with you?

See… I don’t think you’ve put much thought into this. I think you’re lonely, and that’s fine… I get it. Just… don’t use me like that.

And you know, as far as I’m concerned… that’s proof positive that whatever you think you feel is bullshit. You’re lonely, and hurt… and you want to use me to fill that hole. How the hell do you think that makes me feel, huh?

I know we’ve spent years pretending to hate each other, but deep down… I know that we’re friends, and on some level… I thought you were better than that. Even after the countless ways your terrorized my childhood, somehow… I never thought you’d stoop this low.

So, my answer is no.

-Norah

***************************

August 2nd, 2003

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September 9th, 2003

Justin,

You know… I think the easiest way to deal with this is to just forget it. You asked, I said no. End of discussion, ok?

You’re right. It isn’t my place to tell you how you feel. And yes… it probably wasn’t very nice to assume you had some ulterior motive. I was wrong, and I’m sorry. I’d appreciate it if we never talk about this again.

And so help me god… if you told Trace… I’m going to make sure you end up being mauled by some kind of flesh eating insect. Don’t think I won’t do it. You know exactly how that little ankle biter would act with information like this.

So anyway… how’s the tour going? Are you and Christina Assless-Chaps getting along ok?

I just started my last year of school a couple weeks ago, and I guess it’s too early for the finality to really set in. One of my teachers seems to think he can get me a job at this kind of pompous gallery in L.A. So, we’ll see what happens there.

I’m not too big on the idea of L.A, or working at some uppity gallery, but… it’s a job, right? And there’s a good possibility that it could lead to something better. So… who knows. I’ve still got some time to decide, so that’s good.

Anyway, if you talk to your mom… tell her I said hi. She hasn't called me for awhile.

-Norah

**********************

October 13th, 2003

*******************************

December 26th, 2003

Justin,

You didn’t exactly define ‘awhile’ so, I’m hoping almost three months is long enough.

I thought about coming to see you while you were in town last month, but when I went to buy the tickets, I lost my nerve. So, I sat at home that night and did a lot of thinking. And I still didn’t know what to do.

As stupid as it sounds, I missed getting your letters. And I missed writing you. (Yes, the fact that I’m the one who thought this was stupid, then ended up being the one who missed it, isn’t lost on me.)

Once I realized I missed your letters, I kind of figured that meant I’d miss you if you weren’t around anymore. I’m just not exactly sure what missing you means.

It could mean that I’d miss being friends with you… or, it could mean that I miss you because… well… you know. And that’s very confusing.

So… after drinking a lot of wine, I’ve come to a conclusion. I’ll go out with you on one condition.

We will not be classifying this as a ‘date.’ We’ll just be two friends going to dinner, and… we’ll see.

Just… don’t expect too much from me, ok? As you’re well aware… I don’t really know how this stuff works.

-Norah

I will never understand how one disastrous date, a year ago, led to this.

I mean, we’re not talking your run of the mill bad first date here. This was a date so epically terrible that most people would prefer eating glass or being lit on fire, rather than see that person again.

For starters, he was late. So late in fact, that I was asked to move from our amazing table, complete with romantic view of the river, to a seat at the bar so the non-loser patrons could have the table.

To this day, I question why I didn’t leave at that very second. But, the bastard finally showed up, a grand total of two and a half hours late. Believe me, I was furious. Especially when he laughed at me for being stupid enough to sit around and wait on him.

But, he apologized, got us an amazing table, and he was slowly inching his way back toward my good graces. Naturally, that is when all hell decided to break loose.

I could forgive the red wine that he spilled smack dab in the crotch of my white skirt. I was even willing to overlook the fact that the moron forgot his wallet and I had to pay for dinner. However, two things took place that I probably should have murdered him for, right then and there.

I am not a fan of food that is looking at me. If it still has a face, I can’t eat it. So, I’m sure you can imagine the absolute meltdown I had when a golden brown duck was placed on the table, and it was looking right at me.

I’m pretty sure he did it on purpose. Because this is Justin we’re talking about, and the guy’s an asshole like that. But, he was polite enough to have the waiter bring yet another duck, this time with no face.

The icing on this complete shitshow is that Justin neglected to tell me this duck was marinated in some sort of peanut glaze. And you’ll never guess what I’m allergic to. (note the sarcasm there, but if I’m being to subtle… I’m allergic to peanuts.)

It wasn’t until my face began to swell and my throat closed up that I realized what had happened. So, to make a long, painful story short, my first official date with Justin was spent in the emergency room.

See… I always knew that dating Justin would probably result in some poor girls untimely death. I just never expected it to be mine. (Ok, yeah… I know I didn’t die, but I almost did. So.. There.)

Now, you’d think any sane woman would have stayed far, far away from him after that. And I wanted to, but for some reason, just like the millions of times he tortured me as a kid, I went right back for more.

“You know… I should be in the studio, preparing more sweet ass tunes for the world, not helping you move your shit.”

Ah, my knight in asshole armor.

“And I could be a single, sane woman. Can’t always get what we want, can we?” I smirk at him and place several more books into a large cardboard box. “Can you get that small one over there? I know it’s little, but it’s actually very heavy.”

“So I’m being used for my braun… thanks Nor.”

“You sure as shit aren’t here for your brains.” I mutter and move to finish my packing.

I’m sure you assumed that since we’re officially an item, that we’d be a bit nicer to us, but no such luck. We still mock each other constantly, Trace still lives to torment the hell out of me, and I still think Justin has terrible hair.

The only difference now is that I forgive him when he makes fun of me, mostly because he’s pretty and I kind of like kissing him.

“Nor… this one isn’t heavy. I think it’s empty. See?” He shakes the box roughly and I roll my eyes as papers are suddenly scattered all over the floor.

“Wrong box. I meant the one on the right. You can just shove those back in the box… they weren’t organized anyway. And pick up the pace, will you? The new chick is supposed to be here at four.”

I guess I should mention that I am a proud graduate of Sarah Lawrence, who has a cushy job at an amazing gallery in LA waiting for her. And I could not be happier. I don’t have to go back to bum fucked Tennessee, and I get to be that much closer to Justin. It’s a win-win.

“Oh my fucking god… Nor…”

I turn around to find him seated on the floor, laughing hysterically and I feel the color immediately drain from my face. Why did that have to be the box he dumped all over the floor?

Obviously, I’m not a mushy, girly-girl. I’m not sentimental at all, and my first real relationship is with the guy who cut the heads off my barbies. Clearly, there is something very, very wrong with me. But, that doesn’t mean that I’m not prone to typical girl behavior, and Justin has just found the only evidence of that fact.

And it’s embarrassing as all hell.

“Aw baby… I didn’t know you had it in you. I’m… I’m flattered, actually.” He shoots me that shit eating grin and I’m contemplating just how loud he’d scream if I stabbed him right now. I could totally get away with it, right?

“I just didn’t want to throw them out and have one of your psycho fans find them and realize what an idiot you are.” I shrug, doing my best to remain nonchalant about the whole thing.

“Right.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “Admit it… you’re a hopeless romantic at heart and kept them to show your grandkids why you fell in love with me.”

Alright fine… I’m busted.

I kept every single letter he sent me, from the very first one when he left for Europe, to the one he sent just two weeks ago. (Because yes, we’re completely lovesick and disgusting, and still write each other every once in awhile.)

“Wrong. I kept them because one day, when I finally reach my breaking point, I’m going to expose you for the total lame ass you are.”

“I think it’s adorable.” He grins and kisses the tip of my nose. “Even if you won’t admit how much you adore my fine ass.”

Despite the fact that he’s an idiot, and there were various times over the years where I pictured countless ways to brutally torture him, every single freaking papercut was worth it to end up here.