AN OPEN LETTER TO THE RED-HAIRED GIRL
WHO LIVES IN 504

Dear Red-Haired Girl Who Lives In 504,

When I went to Office Depot tonight, I never dreamed you would be the one to ring up my order. But when I went to the counter with my 4-pack of Avery Marks-A-Lot permanent markers in assorted colors, there you were! At first I wasn't certain it was you, but when you turned around to stare blankly past my right ear and mumble, "Is that all for you tonight?" I was sure. With those sparkling green eyes and that curly mass of flaming hair piled atop your head, who else could it be?

You probably don't know who I am. I'm Kilgore Trout, from 509. I'm the guy you never notice when you're out on the balcony in your halter top, squatting on the ground and smoking cigarettes while you talk on your cordless phone. Sometimes it's hard to notice me, because I'm ogling you through the peephole in my door. But other times I physically exit my apartment to go running or whatever, and still you keep inhaling known carcinogens and chattering away as if the Secretary of State was on the other end. I always think you might turn and smile and say, "What, running again?" but you never do. I guess I could take the initiative and say, "What, smoking again?" but that would require my testicles to be composed of an alloy of copper and zinc, instead of Styrofoam like they actually are.

I had considered, during the awkward silence while you changed the paper tape in the receipt printer, mentioning that I recognized you as the red-haired girl who lives in 504. But I was pretty sure that would lead to this conversation:

ME: Hey, don't you live on [our street]? Five-oh-four, right?

YOU (totally freaked out): Yeah...

ME: I live there too! In 509!

YOU: Oh, okay. Did you just move in?

ME: Well, in June.

YOU: Oh. I guess I just haven't noticed you.

ME: Yeah, I guess not.

[continued awkward silence as paper tape loads]

YOU: Okay, eighty cents is your change, and thanks for giving me the creeps. Don't be surprised to see a moving van in the parking lot later in the week.

ME: No problem. It's nice to have established that we have nothing in common beyond the close proximity of our living spaces.

It's probably not my place to say this, but you would do well to quit smearing garish eyeshadow all over your upper eyelids. You're quite pretty, and the makeup distracts from your piercing green eyes. Also, it looks slutty. Not that there's anything wrong with looking slutty -- and there's definitely nothing wrong with being slutty -- but making your eyelids visible from space is pushing things a bit. I will say, though, that the tight, too-short Office Depot shirt works for you. Ditto the tattoo in the small of your back. And don't ever let anyone talk you into getting implants. There's one guy in 509 who thinks your breasts are perfect just the way God gave them to you.

I know I'm pushing it here, but have you ever asked your doctor about Accutane®? It's difficult to tell you have a problem, what with all those cute freckles, but when somebody looks at you very closely -- and I was! -- it's hard not to notice. Sure, side effects of Accutane® can include birth defects or miscarriage, depression and suicidal behavior, permanent loss of sight, tinnitus or permanent hearing loss, stunted bone growth, serious muscle damage, hives, convulsions, rectal bleeding, slurred speech, and much, much more; but beauty, like freedom, isn't free.

I've been thinking about it a lot the last few hours, red-haired girl who lives in 504, and I'm pretty sure you're never going to have sex with me, in spite of my excellent references and my queen-sized bed located fifty feet from your front door. You don't seem the type to allow yourself to be seduced by the nebbishy charms of a guy ten years your senior who rules at Trivial Pursuit and for whom a Rubik's Cube is not an ironic Christmas gift. Also, I've noticed that 100% of the men who enter and leave your apartment are members of a race distinct from mine. I think it's great that your vagina is running a strong affirmative action program, but where does that leave me? Jerking off to grainy freeze-frames of Princess Leia being held captive by Jabba the Hutt, that's where.

Maybe it's for the best. We wouldn't have anything to talk about after four or five hours of sweaty coitus and noisy orgasms, and I'd have to feign sleep and lock the door behind you when you went outside to smoke. Then it would be all weird the next time I left to go running and you were talking on the phone. So I guess we should leave things the way they are.

Best regards, your friend,

Kilgore Trout

+posted by Lawrence @ 12/28/2004 02:28:00 AM