My Dearest Abe,
I have long admired you; ever since the fourth grade when I was forced to recite your Gettysburg Address in front of an entire class of 10 year olds. Thank you ever so much for instilling in me the knowledge that “four score and seven years” is 87 years. That is about all the mathematical intelligence my brain has retained from my days of youth.
I wished as I got older that I had lived in a different time- a time of hooped skirts and slavery, not because I am for slavery, no- I abhor it immensely- but because I would have loved to meet your statuesque self and perhaps had the opportunity to see if the Honest Abe I learned about in school books was , in fact, a myth or a reality. I’m quite certain if I had met you after your marriage happened, there would have been some lying going on to your wife, Mary Todd. (Which I would have felt somewhat bad about.) I’ve always been curious what a man of your stature would do with a woman of menial height.
I remember how thrilled I was on my visit to Frank Lloyd Wright’s House on the Rock when I saw that they had re-created your childhood home, complete with log cabin and a studly mannequin that resembled you. The ax he held was a fine weapon indeed.
I must admit, Abe, after I became aware of Chris Meloni, my feelings for you ebbed away slightly. I admire the great thing you did when you signed the Emancipation Proclamation, because yes, all men (and women) should be free from slavery. (Unless they enter into it freely with a Sexual Deviance Contract.) I remember the school trip we took to Washington D.C., where I burst into tears when we toured the theatre where your plain but beautiful head was blown off. I realize now that I was suffering from teenage hormones, but fear not. The sadness I felt over your death was true.
It has come to light in more recent years that you were a vampire hunter before you became the leader of our great nation. I must admit this knowledge has rekindled the fire I have for you in my heart. How I wish we could have vanquished the undead together- you with your silver-plated ax and I with…. well, um.. my boobs seem to have a distracting effect; however, I’m not quite certain how they would hold up against Dracula’s descendants. It would have been quite lovely to find out.
In closing, I would like to state that, while I cannot lust for you at this time (because you are dead and necrophilia has never been something I’ve been curious about) if you feel the need to haunt me in the late hours of the night, I shall be waiting naked in my bed.
Love,
Sparklebumps
P.S. I do wonder how my Rockstar would feel if I asked him to grow chin-strap whiskers and don a top hat….
Sparklebumpsthebookwhore 