DEAR SEAN:
Your writing is becoming redundant, can you write about something else besides the same things over and over again? If you need help with ideas then get out of your comfort zone to stretch yourself and see more of this world.
...And don’t take offense when I tell you this, but I think you should shave and get a haircut since in your pictures you can sometimes look homeless. Don’t be afraid to let the world see the smiling face that’s behind all that hair, people will love it!
Thanks,
NITPICKY
DEAR NITPICKY:
Thank you for writing me. Of course you didn’t offend me, don’t be silly. I love it when people tell me I look “homeless.” It makes my day.
Only someone with deep emotional insecurities could feel hurt by such words. Someone who, for instance, might have been made fun of in middle school for being chubby. But not me, thank God. I wasn’t ever called “chubby.”
I was called “chunky.”
Chubby and chunky are not the same things. Chubby people
can wear bathing suits to Lydia Mandeville’s thirteenth birthday party and feel no shame.
Chunky people would rather die in a tragic diving-board accident than remove their shirt in public.
Then again, the only thing that would have been worse than taking off my shirt in front of thirteen-year-olds would have been NOT ATTENDING the biggest party of the century.
My friend, Billy (also chunky), insisted on going to the party because he was in love with Lydia Mandeville.
Billy begged me to go. He said, “I need you there! For support! PLEASE!”
“I’m sorry, Billy. I’m not going.”
“There’s gonna be barbecue.”
“Barbecue?”
“Did I stutter?”
So I decided to go to Lydia’s party because there was going to be barbecue.
Billy’s mother dropped us off at the public pool. Billy and I arrived…