what a wonderful invention the high heel was. a way to lift the heel from the ground and in the process accentuate the calves and backyard of any gal who happens to slip them on. it seems simple enough on paper, but sadly just wearing them doesn’t in any way guarantee that you will look more attractive. a lot of women wear high heels, and you can tell that they feel pretty psyched about that. they stagger past you like a drunk cowboy with a look of condescension that seems to say, “i’m three inches out of your league now, buddy” but what they don’t realize is that just managing to remain upright on shoes in no way makes you sexier. there’s a certain coordination and saunter that goes with wearing heels. that is a crucial element. if you are tilted forward like you’re staring over the edge of a high building, or if each step you take only moves your foot forward six or seven inches, that’s not too hot. you’ve got to look like you’ve walked in them before. you can’t look like a cloven-hooved beast walking on ice. a clown on stilts doesn’t look like a dude on stilts. he looks like a weirdo with long legs. because he’s practiced. he doesn’t just say, “tonight i’m wearing stilts”. he wore them around his house (or wherever clowns live) until he got the hang of them. that seems like a good idea if you want a guy to ask to buy you a drink instead of asking if you need to use the bathroom.

they’re coming for you mars. they’re watching you as we speak. they’re building vessels to come pay you a visit, and they’ll make it. they’ll land on you. it may feel ticklish at first, and they may even seem friendly. but if you have any water on you – i would hide it. if they see that, they’ll be digging into you before you know it. they’ll slice into you, burrow down into your skin. they’ll erect giant structures on you. they’ll fill them with more of themselves, and they’ll play their music music loudly. i recommend fighting back. if you have any fault lines, tell them to start shaking hands. have the clouds learn how to spin. you’re going to have to pull out all the stops because they will survive just about anything. even if you squash them out, if you think you’ve gotten them all – you will be wrong. if there are even two of them left, they will soon turn right back into millions and be at it all over again. i’ve been fighting these jerks for centuries, and i’m afraid i’m losing. i’ve called in meteors, i’m trying to organize an ice age. i don’t think it will work. so, if i decide to do the unthinkable and stop spinning – i hope you’ll understand. i’ve fought the good fight, and i’m tired. so tired. it’s been nice being neighbors with you, and i’m sorry if our proximity leads to them spreading onto you. i’d say run, but as we are slaves to the sun, that’s not possible. so again, hide you water and good luck.


sincerely,
earth

no one is allowed to die. everyone sort of collectively understands that the earth can’t hold up if this current birth rate continues. we’re creating people faster than we can find places to store them. we can’t feed all of them. we can’t keep all of them healthy, but it’s an absolute travesty if anyone dies. no one is allowed to leave this party. even if you’re just on the waiting list, people will gather to protest if your potential mother decides to cancel your invitation. if you murder a bunch of people and spend several decades waiting behind bars for your day to be dosed with electricity – people will gather outside with candles to try to persuade the warden to just let you ride it out. no tidal waves, no earthquakes, no fires. there is no possible way for a chunk of people to be removed that is considered acceptable. disease seems to have a randomness to it that feels like it was almost a pre-agreed deal, “you can kill us, but make sure it’s a random draw.” and even though it is mostly random, we’re still not thrilled with it. it feels personal and unfair. but then there’s tobacco. you take a little death stick in your hand and scratch off your potentially winning numbers with every puff. then one day, you die a miserable death. and that’s fair. a little kid with leukemia has no business having to deal with that, but you should. it’s not a fault line that spontaneously started jumping. it’s not a branch that mysteriously fell on your head. it’s one of the only deaths that you can comfortably settle into without having to ask “why me?” you know why you. so can we cut out all the advertising trying to save these idiots? don’t blame big tobacco or little tobacco. it’s not nicotine. you wanted to look cool, and now you’re creating some space for the rest of us by dying. it’s very thoughtful of you.

no matter how rational anyone pretends to be, particularly men, there is probably an initial knee jerk reaction to finding out your son is gay. there are images that quickly sneak into the mind that may cause a father to reel back a bit. i would imagine they are on par with hearing your daughter say, “good news – i’m in love.” you’re excited for your daughter. happy that she’s found love, but there are also images that may creep in. hearing your son say he’s gay probably just briefly allows ridiculous images to pop into your head. and what does that say about you as a father? your son says he’s gay. do you picture him and his partner taking some walks, tasting wine, and watching TV? or is it just a bathhouse/orgy montage? i hate that people still feel compelled to say, “i would be totally fine with my son being gay” like it’s some sort of proclamation worthy of respect. but we live in a time where that probably is good to blurt out every now and again …especially if your son has a propensity for singing. as much of a non-issue as it would be for me to learn my son was gay, it would really bum me out if my dog were gay. there are no walks or wine tastings for dogs. there’s not even a courting period. there’s just that pathetic look of resignation as another dog completely dominates them in front of everyone. your dog can’t even look at you. they just look toward the ground as if they can’t see past the end of their nose until someone comes over and hits the top dog “quit that!” …good luck doing that in your son’s room.