Letters

Dearest, Darling Angela,

I am writing this letter because I feel compelled to tell you how I feel about you.

I have admired you from afar for far too long. I yearn for you. My heart droops when you’re not around – like the ears of a sad bunny rabbit who has been robbed of his carrot.

And unlike this sad bunny rabbit, Angela, my heart cannot simply be shut in a hutch. It will continue to beat through my prison of hay. I shall not be content with a replacement carrot.

I think I’m in love with you.

I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re so beautiful on the outside. Like rainbows. I bet you’re just as beautiful on the inside. Hypothetically speaking, if I cut off your skin, and pulled back the fleshy curtains, I assume your blood would be made of rainbows.

I wish I was as beautiful as you. I think about this too. It makes me more than a droopy, carrot deprived bunny rabbit…It made me angry. For days. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat…not even liver, and that’s my favourite. I cut the tail off next doors cat, and that cheered me up for a little while; long enough to replace all the mirrors in my apartment.

I just have pictures of you instead now. It’s definitely brightened the place up.

If I did cut your skin off, still hypothetically speaking of course, I think I’d try it on, and then you could see me be as beautiful as you are, and maybe then you could find it in your heart to love me, because I’d be on your level.

I want to bring you tea and toast served on my finest Edwardian china.

I want to know what your elbows smell like.

Sometimes, I want to rip out your intestines and feed them to an angry hyena.

Because that’s what love feels like Angela.

I know that you feel it too. The connection we have. It’s like electricity flowing through a  power drill, or a nail gun, or other weapon…erm, I mean, household appliances.

I’ve seen the way you look at me when you’re signing for a parcel. I can hear your ‘thank you’ is laced with lust. I know, when I push the mail into your mailbox, you’re on the other side of the door thinking ‘hot damn, I wish he’d post his male into my malebox’.

And I can’t blame you Angie baby…I have this effect on many women.

But unlike those other women, you can have this male delivered to your door within 24 hours. You can thank me later.

I would never stand you up and not return your calls for months like the last 7 men you invited over (not that I’m counting Angela). I can’t understand why anybody would be so mean as to just…disappear from your life. What happened to them? It’s a mystery.

I hear that nobody knows, but that they definitely weren’t killed by the mailman.

So my dear, sweet sweet Angela, filled with rainbows and vital organs and sexual desire, please no longer let my love go unrequited. We could take things slowly. Maybe you could come to my apartment, have a couple of drinks, we could watch the texas chainsaw massacre or something.

I’d really love to show you my collection of spleens. No woman has ever seen that before. I bet you have a beautiful spleen. It would take pride of place in my spleen display.

Would love to hear from you soon. Otherwise I’ll have to cut my own hand off, one finger at a time, and then I’ll run out of fingers and I’ll have to start cutting up other things, like lettuces and penguins and shop assistants and children and you’ll read about it in the Times and see it on the news and I’ll send shreds of lettuces and penguins and shop assistants and children to you in the mail like a salad, and you’ll know what you did Angela.

But I’m sure that won’t happen.

All my love

Hector

(Your mailman)