I bet you didn’t remember what today is, even though I mentioned it bluntly to your face two weeks ago so you could prepare and write me something real nice. Of course, since your male ape brain can’t comprehend the importance of anniversaries, here I am, alone, without you by my desk or even in the same place. Luckily, you can use Hurricane Sandy as your excuse, but just this once! I’m expecting something more fantastical next year – if we can even last until then.

Can you believe it’s already been a year since you wrote me your first letter? In some ways, it feels like time has flown by, much like one of your cropdusted farts. At the same time, writing you has been a total drag, especially as of late when it seems we’ve run out of things to talk about – I can only openly admire your chiseled good looks so often.

If we could just take a moment to reflect about what has happened in the past year. A year ago, we were two different people brought together by an intense desire to be creative. Boy, have we failed! Sometimes I use exclamation marks to make up for my lack of personality. Did it work?

As we’ve drifted apart over the last six months or so, I’ve been thinking about new ways to spice up our lettership. Maybe if I wear this new, more revealing hoodie, Brad will write me a letter. Perhaps he’ll write me a letter if I adorn him with gifts, I’ve thought many a time. What if, for “Halloween,” I sneak into his apartment wearing a mask of his girlfriend’s face? That should warrant a letter, right?

Answer me this: what have YOU done lately to get yourself a letter?

As we “celebrate” this important milestone I hope we also take some time to think about what we can do for ourselves, for the future, and for the letters.

Yours in prose,

Grace

My sincerest apologies for taking my sweet ass time in responding.

Let’s see, what can I discuss with you that’s new in my life other than the fact a lady fancies me. Yes and she doesn’t have a mustache. She’s actually quite lovely.

Outside of that joy in my world, I have been watching some sports (Football, Baseball, Golf to be exact) lately. I visualize you are snoring right now when I speak of sports.

We also have the impending election, which I’m guessing you haven’t been interested in for a while after both Newt Gingrich and Rick Santorum got knocked out.

Hmm, let’s go with an old school Grace story.

I remember the note that went out to our office about you. It had people cracking up around the office, but you were stone faced after politely handing the same note out to every member of our office. Of course you were, you scripted it with your own quill pen. Why you still send notes interoffice with a quill baffles me.

“Dear New Workers (get it, I switched the “W” with a “Y”),

It is I, Grace. I’m fond of muffin tops, specifically my own. Teeheehee. I am overtly flatulent when nervous. The only thing that will relieve my nerves is Aaron Neville and a Tab. My friends describe me as a cross between Rosie O’Donnell and Fran Drescher.

I look forward to being CEO very soon.

XOXOXOXOXOXO,
Grace”

What could have gone wrong with such an awe-inspiring first Full Company handwritten note?

Answer: Nothing.

Best Regards,
Brad

It’s a daunting thought, but assuming you haven’t already, one of these days you’re going to be responsible for creating another life form. Do you know how horrifying it is to think about you becoming a dad? It’d be like watching a man-child raise a baby.

I’m going to assume you’ll have a son because your face on a girl wouldn’t work out well – I’ve seen pictures of Mark Zuckerberg’s sisters.

Should you and your baby mama decide to go through with becoming parents, here are the bare minimum traits I hope your future son inherits to give him a decent shot at life:

• Her hair
• Her face
• Her sense of style
• An even distribution of torso hair

If we get to the point where we can genetically modify children, we could cherry pick some of your better qualities so you could be something more than a sperm donor and second income. The problem is, what would we choose when pickings are so slim?

• You’re tall-ish. May he get that.
• You fart a lot. I’m sure it’d make you proud if he did too.
• Your appetite. Because being the husky kid in school will build his character, like it did for you. Sort of.
• Your laugh. The high-pitched giggle will bring joy to many.

Until technology figures it out, please get your tubes tied. The world would be so much prettier.

Hearts,

Grace

We all know how resilient you are. That time where you had to go through surgery to get your tail removed. That other time when in a steroid-filled rage you punched a wall and shattered your left paw. Your most recent injury (which I promised you I wouldn’t broach) had you relegated to a left foot boot. Ok, I’ll broach. One of your sausage-like cankles got caught between the platform and the train as you were trying to impress the folks in the station by moonwalking into the subway car.

Your innate ability to fight through such traumatic injuries has to be applauded and so I will do so in a poem.

As a young buck, you didn’t give a f*ck.
You would play around and create a ruckus,
most of the time falling on your tuckus.
Then you made it to a teen,
where you had to get a new spleen.
Finally you achieved adulthood,
and everyone thought finally you’d be “good.”
Still everyone repressed their fear,
and then sure enough you became obsessed with Van Gogh and ended up without a left ear.

We’re proud of you for forging on, I guess.

You’re a true dolt clutz warrior,
Brad

After an entire month of making up excuses for why you couldn’t write, you had the nerve to demand a letter from me and on top of that, request a poem. Well, here you have it:

When you were at the ripe ol’ age of five,
a stroller served as your most cherished ride.
As other boys were learning how to dive,
you rolled contently by your mother’s side.
Instead of walking on your own you sat
despite the fact that you were way too old.
Combined with breast milk you got really fat
and broke your pushing mother’s back I’m told.
Where did you learn your bratty, lazy ways?
It seems that nothing’s really ever changed.
We truly hoped that it was just a phase.
Your wish for me to push you is deranged.
If you just used your feet then you would see
it’s not okay to sit in your own pee.

I hope you are happy with this Shakespearean sonnet. And seriously, your poor mom. I’m surprised she didn’t keep pushing you in your stroller until she reached the edge of a cliff.

Hearts and slugs,

Grace

I’m writing to you. It has been too long and I take full responsibility. Actually I’m going to take 93% of the responsibility. 7% is on you. After you cropdusted me the other day (after a week of your dairy-only diet), I was in a funk for the rest of that day – a day in which I wanted to write to you. But I digress.

The other day I saw a lady walking around topless south of Union Square. No one stopped her. They just let her flaunt what her mama gave her. What she was trying to prove, I’m not exactly sure. Probably something around women’s rights. “Bras are holding us back.”

It reminded me of that time that you told me of your bottomless bar crawl last summer. With an eloquent tagline of, “pants are for pansies,” you definitely took over this event, body, mind and soul. Taking Brooklyn Heights by storm, you and your crew, Grace’s Goons, took Bar Crawl literally and crawled from bar to bar, sans undies. You mentioned how strict you were in sticking to the no pants theme, when someone came with pants on and you forced them to doff their drawers on the spot. They had a “rash” down where the sun doesn’t shine. You felt little to no remorse, only uttering the following profound statement, “Rules are rules and without rules, you’re rule-less and things can become unruly.” At that point the bar crawl broke up, people put on their pants (which you naturally chastised them for) and drifted away back to appropriate societal norms. You were left with Honey (a dog) as the only bottomless mammals to finish out the bar crawl. I imagine the conclusion was comparable to Ron Burgundy with Baxter.

Grace, some would be appalled at your behavior. Some aren’t me. I’m proud that you took initiative and lead the Goons in a journey that they found entertaining and mildly disGRACEful.

And so I pose a question many are anxious to know the answer to: Will there be a 2nd annual Grace’s Goons Bottomless Bar Crawl?

Sincerely,
Brad

Don’t you find it a bit strange for you to be writing me letters without addressing what happened between us a couple weeks ago? I really feel like it’s unhealthy to act like we never tied the knot. Sure, things have been awkward since our annulment, but I think we should take a step back to see how this all happened in the first place.

I remember it all started out with day drinking. You had a client to meet after so you wore a suit and tie. I had a house to haunt so I put on a lacy, white gown. Who knew it would end up like this –>?

It was a fun afternoon, from what I can recall. Food was plentiful and drinks were ever flowing. My memory is usually great, so I’m going to guess we were drugged. Or at least I was because why else would I marry a man-child? Look at my head in the picture, I can barely keep it up! That is clearly not someone who has her wits about her.

But you, you look oddly happy, as if you’ve finally tricked someone to settle down with you. As if you’ve slipped a ruby ring on me and made me happy because Chinese people love red things, even when incapacitated.

What I don’t get is why no one stopped us. We already broke one vow when you moved desks, how could we be trusted to stay together til death do us part? Why didn’t anybody object to us getting married?

Did an evil Trotta wizard cast a spell on everyone, one that would cause momentary glee and eventual “wasn’t that funny?” memories even if it resulted in thousands of dollars in lawyers fees and a horrifying morning discovery of me waking up with a blanket pulled over my head, knowing that at some point in the night you had dutch ovened me, or worse?

Out of sight out of mind,

Grace

It struck me the other day that we might be maturing/becoming adults. Sure, we live for the opportunity to cropdust a subway car full of sticky humans during a humidity-laced Summers day. We relish the opportunity to challenge 7 year olds to an arm wrestling match, beat them and then laugh in their face. We jump at the chance to give undeserving people wet willies. All that aside, we’re pretty much functioning adults.

Here are my reasonings for making such a grand assertion:
a) I just gave up my membership to Chuck E. Cheese. It wasn’t easy, but I shut it down. You recently went to Dave & Busters and cashed in all your tickets for a snow globe and then smashed it in front of a group of unsuspecting tweens. You then proclaimed, “Grace out!” (giving your best Ryan Seacrest impersonation.)
b) You no longer need your “recess time” during the day. No more Bop It out in Madison Square Park during your lunch hour. No more need for me to round up 14 random people so we can play an 8-on-8 game of Capture the Flag in Union Square late afternoon. I don’t need you to check my head for lice anymore. (i don’t think)
c) You don’t have to drink all beverages out of a sippy cup. I have traded in my Power Ranger’s lunch box for an Avengers one.
d) I have stopped making the claim that “Ants Marching” is the Best DMB Song of all time. You have given up the dream of convincing everyone that Melissa Etheridge is a top 10 artist of the 90′s.
e) I don’t say that I drink Milwaukee’s Best because of the taste anymore. You gave given up the bag wine and moved onto to the box.

Am I proud of us for moving into this adult club? Kind of.
Am I confident it will last for a while? Doubtful.
When will we really know that we’re stuck in adulthood for the long haul? We use the phrase, “net-net” in a non-mocking fashion.

Godspeed,
Brad

Remember me? Your former deskmate? The one you used to spill your heart and farts out to? The Priscilla to your Mark but in looks only?

When you left me for sales, I joked that we would drift apart, that the space-time continuum would cease to exist. Had I known my prophetic words would ring true, I would have never encouraged you to take on a new position that would finally give you the business cards you desired so much to earn lady business. Now that you’ve closed a deal or two, you’ve acted like I’m not important enough to insult on a near-daily basis.

Without your constant putdowns, snide remarks about my personality and the glib jabs at my looks, not to mention your physical abuse, I’ve felt abandoned. To fill the void, I’ve been spending the lunch hour drinking alone at bars, telling bad jokes and demanding the drunk locals slap me in the face for being me. Some have taken me up on that, but never as gently as you.

Foolishly, I believed that if I gave you some space, you would come back to me. At work, you’re constantly telling people you can’t talk unless the conversation will result in ad dollars. As such, I made sure when I brought you lunch, I also delivered a lead. So many hours spent neglecting my own work so I could help you do yours. And what did I get? Not even one comment about being an oinker.

When I realized the only time we conversed was when I made the effort, I knew it was time for me to pull back. Did you even notice my absence? It’s been three weeks since I’ve written you, two weeks since you’ve written me without response, one week since you’ve looked at me. But it’ll still be two days til we say we’re sorry.

How does that make you feel, Bradley? Can you even feel anymore?

Kind Regrets,

Grace

I know you’re hitting that time in life when you become a woman. As you’ve clarified to me many times, “I’m not a girl, not yet a woman.” Well now it’s time to own up, man woman up! You’re going to be over the hill which means you must take on the responsibilities that come with being a woman. None of which I am really aware of. I could hypothesize the following though.

I would say that taking a shot of tequila everytime you finish a simple task isn’t appropriate anymore. Also would venture a guess that snot rockets are frowned upon. Probably also want to abstain from mooning people and saying, “It’s a full moon out tonight ladies and gentlemen.” In other words, stop doing everything that you find great joy in doing. Most people would say that what you were doing as a late late twenty-ite wasn’t allowed, but because you were in your twenties, they let it slide. Now when you hit the BIG 3-0, you are forced to become a woman. I believe in you…kind of…probably not…good luck.

So as you continue to become less and less fertile, I wish you all the best in this upcoming birthday of yours. But when exactly will I be able to celebrate and belt out, “Feliz Cumpleanos” to you? Very few people know this date. Mama Grace, even though on a daily basis tries to strike the date from her mind. A college friend or two whom you drugged and tattooed your initials and birth date on. And that clown you emptied your savings account for with the promise that he would come and wish you a happy birthday every year from 18 on. He technically came once (that’s what she said), but that was only because you went to another kids birthday party (not creepy at all) to demand he wished you a happy birthday.

So if there is anyone who knows the date of Grace’s birthday, I beg of you to share it with me. Preferably on my Pinterest account. Think of me as the anti-Grace – lover of birthdays and social media. Help me celebrate her. Actually just help me make her uncomfortable. I know that got someones attention. In retribution for sharing, I promise you a Balance bar that I will get from my mother in a Care package soon.

Help me make Grace uncomfortable,
Brad