Letters to Supermodels

Dear Heidi:

I don’t even really know how to begin this letter to you (like you’ll ever read it) but if the letter gods or at least the mailmen can indulge this ‘weirdo’s’ fantasy, I’ll begin where it almost feels right.

First, I think the water that comes out of my taps is bad. I used to buy bottled water (like you) but felt maybe I wasn’t doing the environment any favours; and perhaps the water in the bottles wasn’t so fine after all. Sure it tastes good, but who knows what bacteria is involved. But this is not what I really wanted to say. I don’t even know what I want to say.

Sometimes I smoke cigarettes. Do you smoke Heidi?

I masturbate to your picture all the time—there, I said it—now let’s forget it. I’m only being honiced? How do you spell that word?

Shit, I shouldn’t have written that thing about the ‘masturbation’. Now you’ll think I’m weird and stuff. Please forget I even said it – even tho, it’s kind of a compliment.

You wanna know the truth Heidi? I always thought I’d make a good boyfriend to a Supermodel. Seriously. Like when you (or one of your model friends) has had a particularly hard day at the photo shoots, and you just want to come home, you know, get off your feet ‘cuz you bin wearing those terrible shoes all day, and I’d be there - waiting for you!

I know models get a bad rap for being stupid and stuff, but that wouldn’t bother me. It’s mostly overrated and rehearsed b.s. anyway, talking.

Dontcha think?

The reason I mention this (dating models) is because I saw this girl at the book store the other day that looked like she could have been a model (maybe she was) and I was sooooo intimidated by her. I mean, she was like real beautiful and such; she had fancy clothes and nice shoes, styley hair, and a friendly smile... maybe I’ll wait for her to get off of work tonite – you know – I’ll make it a special surprise. Just her and me. And you Heidi, in my heart.

Bless us.



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