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
Norah,
Lay the fuck off with the Britney shit, alright? She cheated. We broke up.
And don’t write back telling me how sorry you are, or how I can talk to you if I want. I don’t want to talk about it. And I sure as shit don’t need anybody trying to be extra nice to me because of it. I’m dealing with it, and that’s all I’m gonna say.
Student art show eh? I’m going to assume that’s a pretty big deal, so congratulations. Hope you win, or whatever the hell happens with that kind of thing.
My album’s coming out in a couple months, and I’m really fuckin excited. I’m pretty damn proud of it, so…. Go easy on me when ya decide to bash it, ok?
-J
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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
Dear Norah,
You know… you might be the only person who hasn’t been all up in my face about all of this. I get that people are concerned, but it’s bad enough I’ve got the press up my ass, I don’t need it from my friends too, ya know?
It just… it fucking sucks. And it hurts. And the worst part about it is, I almost feel like I brought it on myself. I’ve had that ‘don’t trust anyone’ shit shoved down my throat as far back as I can remember, but I let myself trust her, and I got fucked.
And it’s not even like she’s a bad person. Even after all of this, I still think she’s one of the nicest people I’ve ever known. She just… she made a mistake. And part of me think maybe I should forgive her. That she just had a moment of weakness or something.
But there’s this other part of me that’s so fucking angry, I just can’t even look at her anymore. I’ve had plenty of opportunities to do the same exact shit, and I didn’t. I refused to do anything like that, because I knew what it’d do to her. Because I knew how it’d feel to have it done to me.
And the funny thing is… it’s ten times worse than I ever imagined it could be. I mean… I’m not sitting around crying like some fuckin girl or anything, but I’m just… fucked up, I guess.
Maybe I’m just being a pussy. I need to man the fuck up, and get over it. Maybe I’m making all of it out to be bigger than it actually is. Maybe I was just in it more than she was.
I know you’re probably going to read this and laugh your ass off, and you know what… it’s fine. I can almost understand why you would. You’ve never had a boyfriend, much less been dicked around like this, so I’m sure you’ll think the whole thing is hilarious.
But, I’ll tell you this… I hope it never happens to you. Cause it fucking blows, and there ain’t a god damn thing you can do about it. You just have to take it and hope it gets better real fuckin quick.
And I know it will, eventually. I’d just prefer it to be sooner rather than later.
Anyway… I’m done being a whiney little bitch, I swear. Oh… and I sent you a copy of the album. It’s already out, so I think that puts you in the clear.
Gotta admit, it’s kind of cool to hear I’m influencing your work and shit. Proves just how much you love me, even if you won’t admit it. And yes… I mean that in a strictly friendly kinda way. So don’t go getting your panties in a wad… not that I’m thinking about your panties… and… fuck… this is starting to sound weird and shit… so, I’m stopping now.
-J
