Letter from Death's Door

I think the funniest thing I've ever done was throw my arm out across my wife just as the car was crashing. Because, obviously, the power of my arm would save her. Would have saved her. M'arm!

Here's something they don't teach you in those driver's ed "this could happen to you" movies. After you get into a car accident, after all the unbelievable bone-rattling, loss of higher motor skills and appetite, everything around you just gets funnier. REALLY funny. I think it's something that you have to get all shook up for, but once you are, once that hatch is open then it takes real effort just to keep from seeing the joke in everything.

Like, right now for instance. I'm looking up and there are three levels of depth that I'm peering into. The first level consists of two heads, the second level of depth are the silhouettes of power lines and the tops of trees. Then, behind it all, a hazily black sky and stars. And it's just...oh my shit. Of course. That is fucking funny. That is really fucking funny. This must be the worst play ever. Look! They're already drawing the curtains!

What? You don't get it? You will.

The heads want me to keep talking, so I will. I'd like to take a moment to acknowledge that being in love with you was a pretty sweet deal and I'm glad I took the time to spraypaint that onto several street signs and abandoned billboards. You were worth it. STOP. I LOVE HEIDI.

I think the heads are getting a little worried about my constant laughter. Do not worry, heads. The laughter is joyous, it is freeing. When staring into the face of ultimate darkness, one can leave no better legacy than massive credit debt and boisterous, infectious peals of laughter. Also I felt something inside me just passively swell up and burst, leaving a warm numbly spot. If you could get to that, no rush, it's your schedule not mine, then I would appreciate it.

Ohhhhh man, check this out. I just figured out how to make these little butterflies, they're so clean and white and two-dimensional and pretty. I'm going to give them each a message and send them out to talk to people. I can't believe I've never thought to do this before. Why aren't we all communicating with butterflies made of light? It's like...like I'm making a movie but you're only gonna see it inside your head.

Hey, I'd like one of you heads to have my car. Or you can both have it, whatever. I don't know what your situation is and I don't mean to pry. It just dawned on me that I don't need my car anymore, so, you know, go on.

You can have my computer, too. Or, one of you can have the car and one of you can have the computer. Just don't fight over who gets what, because that would just be total crap and everyone is expecting that to be the ending, anyway. I don't need the computer anymore, I swear, these little flappy butterfly guys must have, like, 400 gig memories. That one flittering by your ear has my unfinished novel in it. The one doing loop-de-loops over your bald spot has the ending to it. If those two ever got together I think...I think...I think that would really be the end.

I know you said I should keep talking, but there's really no need to. The stars are getting closer and closer and the sky is filling with twinkly little butterflies all speeding off to their destinations. Don't look now, but the Big Dipper just totally materialized over your forehead. And you, other head, the North Star just popped up on the tip of your nose like a little sparkly zit. Stay calm, whatever you do, DO NOT POP THE NORTH STAR. It just...it feels like a bad idea.

You've moved me. Not spiritually but physically. I think I'm in a truck now, but I'm not sure because the starry night is draped over everything. I need to open my eyes, I need to keep talking, the heads say, but if I open my mouth then the stars will pour in and...

Actually, I wonder what that would be like.

I...

Oh.

This is not the ending everyone is expecting.

Letter from An Enlightened Husband

Married life can be an adventure all its own! (Or at least that's what I heard.) And I can't not say that my own marriage to Deborah has been any different. I have grown in many ways! No no no, don't pick up that remote control, boys, come back! I've got something kind of important to say to you guys, something that you only learn after being locked in the arms of years of unceasing marital bliss. And that important thing is this: Men and women truly are equal. Just in different ways.

For example...I don't mind being the one to cook! In fact, you can get a powerful sense of satisfaction from being able to deliver a meal for the pleasure of your loved ones. Whenever I swing by McD's or KFC on the way home from work I always phone ahead to see if she wants anything. And if she's not in the mood for anything, I get her something anyway! If she doesn't eat it later, I will, so it's not like it's going to waste or anything.

I watch my weight just as much as she does, too, so dispel that myth out of your silly head right now! It's a MUTUAL responsibility between my wife and I to not get fat on each other. I see all those reports on TV about "the fattest country in the world" and "rising obesity rates" and I go "NOT ME!" and "NOT MY WIFE EITHER!" I make sure to point to her whenever I see something getting a little by the wayside, and I wouldn't mind if she did the same. (I have gotten a little puffy since last year, enough that I had to buy a new belt. But she hasn't said anything so I must not look too bad!)

What's most important is that I don't let anyone disrespect my wife, EVER. And I'm not talking about bullshit like someone making a move on her or catcalls on the street or anything like that, I'm talking ANYTHING. You wouldn't believe how insidious and commonplace someone's disrespect can be, just based on someone's gender. Like when we go to restaurants? The waiter (or waitress!) always assumes that my wife wants water. What? She might not want soda? Or wine? Or a beer? Why do you think a woman can't have a beer??? Bring my wife a beer! It happens every time! It's gotten so bad that I don't even take her out to dinner anymore. Freakin' racists.

Although, the more things change, the more they stay the same. My wife is still very much a woman when it comes to opening jars or serving as a receptacle for the pulsing torrents of my man-genes. And when she and the gals get together for another one of their interventions, I do the gentlemanly thing and head off to the bar for a few hours.

And I haven't TOTALLY escaped the luring, woolen comfort of testosterone. There are times when I just zone COMPLETELY out and become totally preoccupied with my work as a heart surgeon. And I'm constantly trying to fix things that I have no experience fixing, or trying to give them...woof woof...more POWER! (I loved that show! Why'd they cancel it?)

But boys...and make no mistake you little quivering dick bumps, before you experience the loving hellstorm of marriage then you are STILL boys...you should strive to meet your wife halfway on everything. Listen to what she has to say, even if it's about having a baby, always ask what's wrong if she's crying, don't forget the anniversaries or birthdays (MS Outlook Calendar is good at this), and insist she pay half the gas bill with her own money. You heard right! Couples share the good AND bad things together.

Even if the cunt blames you for all of the bad things.

Letter from a Recipient Of An Extreme Home Makeover

Dear ABC,

I am writing this letter in hopes that you will finally take a moment to consider the damage you have done for the sake of TV ratings. When you "made over" our house last month you left us in an even worse situation than before. A friend of the family had originally contacted you regarding our situation: My two daughters and I had been living in a hurricane-ravaged house. A house that we didn't have the time or resources to fix, thanks to my mounting medical bills and the continual absence of my husband, an American soldier currently serving his third service in Iraq.

I have to be honest when I tell you that I was ecstatic when I heard we had picked by that reprehensible Ty and his crew to get our home made over. The shoddy job you did, however, has left us with even more problems than before.

The entire ordeal started off on the wrong foot. For one thing, we were NOT consulted in regards to the redesigning of our house and we were NOT told that you would demolish the entire thing. Of course, had you told us that then we would have told you to leave immediately, and then you would have been out of a show. Something that I am told by the assistant of one of your network executives would have "inconvenienced the production". Perfectly understandable. After all, it's not you're transforming people's very lives or anything like that.

We were happy as clams back then, however, and gladly allowed you to whisk us away while you worked on our house. Yes, away for a fun filled week at...Disneyland. Let me make this as clear as possible: I AM DISABLED. It is not physically possible for me to ride anything in a theme park without sustaining some type of damage to my self. So when you sent me, my two daughters only guardian, to Disneyland, you effectively stranded me in a hotel room. (Which, when your production went over an extra day, I then had to pay for.) Not only did your insensitivity effectively strand me in a hotel room, but because of this my two daughters weren't able to enjoy all the rides and attractions that the trip had promised. Yes, they drove me nuts that week, but the bigger crime lays in the breaking of the promise you made to them.

When I communicated this to Ty over that subsequent week, he was unreceptive. "I can't wait for you to see your new house! You're gonna be so excited! Bye!" were the most coherent things I was able to get out of the man.

After going through such an exhaustive week with my family, the crew finally arrived at the hotel to bring us back to our house. I admit I slept through most of that ride, as your interior designer Cissy entertained my daughters. (I did not appreciate Cissy offering her lipstick to my 8 and 10 year old, but this is negligible in light of the crew's other mistakes.)

When those limo doors opened, I was dazzled like everyone else. Our old house was GONE, our new house was there and it was enormous. Certainly it didn't look like anything I would personally choose out, but it was free after all. (Or so I thought, but I will address this shortly.)

What greeted me inside was horrifying. Not only had thrown out ALL of our furniture (much of which were wedding gifts from friends and family) but you had redesigned the floor plan to include a myriad assortment of tiny one or two step embankments. To get from the front door to my bedroom now requires that I ascend three steps, circle around a one-step pit set in the middle of the living room, up two more steps into the hallway/kitchen, only to face an entire staircase up to the second floor.

Oh, but Ty had that covered. Behind the stairwell is a small personal elevator that I can use to shuttle myself to and fro between the two floors. An elevator that we cannot shut off and adds an additional $35 to the electric bill each month, nor lock to prevent our two small children from playing around in. An elevator that will cost us over $500 to service, which must be done every six months according to law. Or at least it would if, oh yeah, IT WASN'T ILLEGAL TO HAVE AN ELEVATOR IN A RESIDENTIAL DWELLING IN THIS STATE. According to the state of North Carolina, we must be reclassified as a hostel/orphanage/child care center, or pay for the dismanting and removal of the elevator, the latter of which can only be accomplished by a five figure sum. (Or, roughly, my husband's yearly stipend from the military.)

I have not yet had the time to deal with that matter, however, as I am too busy trying to heal what your crew's gross incompetence has done to the mental health of my children. Your complete redesign of their room based on what you saw arbritrarily on their dressers (For Brittany it was ponies, and for Danielle it was...guitars? How did you come by this one?) Brittany does not understand why she has to sleep in a giant pony bed, nor does Danielle fathom why there is a baffling piece of art on her wall that consists of several smashed guitars glued together in an unsettling, haphazard formation.

Both of them, however, constantly ask me if I've gotten their toys, old clothes, and other possessions back. And I am forced to answer no every time, as no one at your network will inform me as to the whereabouts of our stuff. Assuming that they weren't tossed in a dumpster, that is. And assuming that anyone there at ABC knows their head from their ass.

Personally, I would like to know what you have done with the large, ornate china hutch that was gifted to me by my great-grandmother. You had the sense to preserve our family photo albums, but not this? Or is it laying in one of your crew's own house right now? A spoil of victory?

I would also appreciate some help in how to handle our property taxes this year. Do we technically own this residence any more? And if so, how are we supposed to handle a near-quadrupled tax quote? Do you realize that reporting this house will shift us up into a new tax bracket, and I will no longer qualify for state health insurance?

Of course you don't. You have not returned any of my calls or emails regarding these matters. At first I tried to be gracious and polite, but now I am through with this. Your blatant disregard for the ruin you have made of our lives in the quest for something as ephemereal as "TV ratings" must stop. And if I have to take you to court, I will do so.

If I do not receive a personal response to this letter within 30 days, my lawyer will be in touch.

- Molly Gershin