Tag Archives: letters

My Aging Metabolism


I’m getting older. As if working with a bunch of underage teens has not helped me with this realization, for the last few weeks, I’ve had unsolicited email notifications blowing the fuck out of my phone with these taunting words in the subject line: Your Aging Metabolism.

I could be wrong here, but I do believe that repeatedly sending emails to a potential customer badgering her about her worst dread is just bad advertising. What is it about “Your Aging Metabolism” that makes this asinine company think I would ever respond, and in a positive way to their dim-witted emails?!? Surely, said company is hoping to sell me bottle water from the mythical Fountain of Youth, or whatever magical potion that makes Christopher Meloni maintain his Adonis-like good looks; it seems to me their attempts would be more successful were they to fawn over my general fabulosity, rather than mentioning a little flaw I may or may not even deal with.

I have decided I will respond to them in a blog post…

To the Displeasing Ones It May Concern,

I have received a good many of your emails. Unfortunately (for you), I have opened none of them. I’ve no desire to buy whatever the fuck it is you may be selling, since you have been impertinent enough to remind me of “my aging metabolism”-  a matter that I have little to no control over.

Let me tell you something, you inconsiderate assfaces. My metabolism quit aging when I was ten. My metabolism was thought to be about 107 years old, judging by the pictures of me at that time. Yes, I may have lost my “baby fat” when I was a teen, but that was mostly due to not eating for about four years, and exercising instead of sleeping.

Since you have been so kind to call to mind that I’m getting older, we may as well assume that my metabolism is about 500 years old now. Which means there’s nothing you can do about me getting fat in my old age; I plan on eating the French fries that cross my path, and not foregoing the cake Marie Antoinette so graciously said I should eat. No pill advertised by dumbasses like you will be able to save me.

For future reference, next time you want to try to manipulate unsuspecting victims, try something along the lines of “Let us help you maintain your amazingness”. Not “Buy our shit, Fat ass”, which is essentially the advertising you went with. If you wish to fire your ad execs and hire me, I would consider gracing you with my talents; however, at this point, I’d be charging you up the butt.

I will let you know that I most certainly will tell every person I know who receives emails about your shenanigans, and urge them to also completely ignore your abhorrent behavior.

Love Never,

Sparklebumps

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Nice To (Kind of) Meet You, Mr. Deniro


Dear Robert Deniro,

I will begin this letter by saying I adore you as the lightning pirate who wears corsets and can-can scarves in the movie Stardust. Though you have made a career out starring as tough mob bosses and mentally unfit taxi drivers, I must admit that I did not truly appreciate your talent until I saw you parading around with a heart-shaped mole in this film. You may star in my future films as a sexually-confused air-pirate anytime.

That being said, I would like to point out that while you were equally as brilliant in your role as Jack Byrnes in Meet the Parents  and it’s sequals, I was so disgusted with that Ben guy that I couldn’t fully enjoy your performance. He seems to end up in a lot of movies I immensely enjoy, causing me great distress.

I’ve just gotten finished watching Everybody’s Fine on Netflix, and I without a doubt think that you should have received an Oscar for your performance as a lonely widower on the edge of death. While I watched, I thought to myself that I would surely not mind being your daughter, because you did love your children so. I am glad that you did not die at the end.

Thanks to Netflix, I was also able to watch The Big Wedding, where you played a horny old man with an ex wife and a girlfriend. Might I just say here- yay for you! If you can so easily play a randy seasoned patriarch, perhaps you are not acting at all, hmm?

Side note: While my previous letters to greatly-matured actors such a Anthony Hopkins have hinted at my possible lust for them, I must admit that I bear no such funny feelings in my pants for you, dear Robert. That is not to say I do not find you to be quite smashing in other categories. So sorry.

After having adored you so in the last few films of yours I’ve watched, I have made a point to put all of your movies that were available on my Netflix list. Sadly, Cape Fear and The Deer Hunter were not among these. So if you happen to read this letter, and find it even mildly amusing, would you be so kind to send me signed copies? If not, I guess that’s ok. It was only a suggestion.

I would like to congratulate you on the fact that you haven’t aged a day in the last 20 years. You don’t look a day over…. 65. Well, there has to be a few grand actors in Hollywood who aren’t just there for their looks, right?

If at any time you wish to produce a movie that requires that I play your daughter, or hired hooker, feel free to give me a call. It would be a great honor to work with you. I would even include a booby squishin’ hug upon our initial meeting, but don’t get any ideas. I’m saving myself for Chris Meloni.

XOXO,

Sparklebumps

 

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A Letter to My Mother


Since my blog is the reason my parents haven’t talked to me in over half a year, it seems only right that I would post the letter I’ve written to my mother this day.

To Mom,
I know it has been a long time since we’ve talked, but honestly, I haven’t known what to say. The last time we spoke, you were concerned about my mental health, but would take no responsibility for the reason I am the way I am. I read the letter you sent me, and Aunt Bonnie and Gramma have mentioned just a few things you guys have discussed in conversation concerning me, and I realize a lot of my feelings toward you and dad are because of things that happened long ago, but they did happen, and helped to shape who I am, whether you want to admit or not.
I know that you planned me. I know that you both gave me everything you could as I was growing up. You showed me how to have faith in God, and I always do and will,  despite the fact that dad thinks I’m “fallen so far from the Lord.” Believe me, my faith is the only thing that kept me from killing myself when I was a teenager, or doing something worse.
I appreciate that you loved me so growing up, and did what you thought was best for me, which is why I refrained from telling you both about my blog. I respected you enough to shield you from the things that would have caused you pain or sadness, but I realize now that not being straightforward with you wasn’t honest, so I will be honest in this letter.
I know that you and dad both felt you made mistakes with the past relationships you had. Which is maybe why it was that your three older children felt mistreated or unloved. I can understand why my sister would have been jealous of me, because I know the pressures felt by being the “good child”. I understand why you felt you had to keep me distanced from my brother, though I don’t agree with it. I am blessed to have a brother who loves me so unconditionally, because his is a love I have never felt from another human in my life. He really is my best friend, and I understand his depression.
I have no children of my own, and that’s an whole other issue, but I know that a child is supposed to be the MOST important thing in a person’s life, other than God. That doesn’t mean you have to agree with the way they live their lives, or approve of them in any way, but I know that you are supposed to love your child(ren) unto the ends of the earth and back, and in such a way that they feel loved, and feel good enough, and feel that they can tell you anything.
I know I was a child long ago, and the things that happened then shouldn’t be of any consequence now, but I think of my childhood every day. You tell me I was planned, but clearly you and dad did not discuss my raising to the extent that you discussed my existence, because I remember many many times when dad disciplined me with pieces of wood that splintered and broke with the force of his rage, while you pretended he was not taking his anger out on me instead of you. I remember when you both found condoms in my room, and dad literally threw them in my face and told me that “no one would ever want me again” since I was no longer a virgin. I don’t have to have a kid to know I would never, ever stand by and allow anyone to say such a thing to my child, even if it was my husband, and even if I did agree with him.
I mentioned that I contemplated suicide when I was a teen. Perhaps depression is a hereditary thing, and maybe I have it, but I can tell you that ever night when I thought about it, it was because I wasn’t allowed to do much as a teen. I don’t mean being allowed to go out and party and kiss boys and get into trouble; dad was sooo concerned about the state of my virginity that he took me out of school, and wouldn’t allow me to stay at my friend’s house because she had a brother who had friends. I will tell you, you two raised me well enough to guard my body from those who would defile it until I was definitely old enough to know the consequences of my decisions. In fact, when dad was so worried about my sex life, I was innocent enough to tell Jeremy I might never want to have sex. I was with him for a year and a half before we ever had a physical relationship, and that was after I had already left home. (I know you both think I dated him before that, but you are so wrong.) This is what I have learned: sex does not make a person who they are, and virginity or the lack thereof should not make another person treat that person like a non-human. Dad has treated me that way.
That was long ago, and you’re right- it doesn’t matter now. But I have learned that while I can forgive someone for such things, I see no reason to include such people in my life. You are my mother, and I will always love you, and I understand that you think dad is the love of your life. Maybe he is, but I know from experience that he does not treat you like a queen as a husband should, and does not treat you like his most precious gift, which you are. Do you want to know why he and I don’t get along? Because I am just as stubborn as he is, and I refuse to accept the way he treats you. He demeans you in front of people, and there is no call for that, because you are the sweetest woman I have ever known. You deserve to be near your family if you want to be, and you deserve respect from your husband. If you think you have that, then as I said before- I am glad for you. But I see the way he treats you when you both come to visit, which is why I no longer wanted to have contact with him years ago.
I love. Love is everything to me, and love given to me is reciprocated ten-thousandfold. I love my extended family, because they have shown me love always, even when they might not have agreed with me, and have always hoped that I achieve my dreams. Dad, my father, has never even been interested in what my dreams were, unless they had everything to do with God. Dreams and goals can still include God without having to be such things as missionaries and pastor’s wives. God has given me a talent for writing, and music, and painting; what I do with it is my choice, which is also something God has given to me, as he has to us all.
I love this world that God has placed me in, and I love the gay people who are in it, because God created them too, and made so many of them amazingly flamboyant and beautiful. I love all kinds of music, because God gave men the ability to write such things. I love my beloved, my Rockstar, because he is a good father and he has the talent that God gave him to be able to play the guitar without knowing how to read music, and has given him the passion and the patience to deal with and try to understand my fucked-up self, even though he doesn’t understand my sadness at all. I love that God placed me in a church that is my family’s church, and put so many people there that appreciate my talent, even if it is a church that dad doesn’t approve of for no reason at all. I have received more love from the Methodist Church in 7 years than I ever received in every Baptist church we attended as I was growing up. There is no evil in that.
Concerning my blog: when I started it, I knew not what I was going to do with it, but I knew I wanted to hone my writing skills. Through the comments and the readers I’ve received since I’ve had it, I have been able to understand myself better, and I my confidence in my talent has grown considerably. I know not that if I ever finish writing any of the many books I have started writing, people will read them, and enjoy doing so. I am more honest in my blog about my experiences than I ever have been in real life, and that has made me be more honest in real life. Sometimes, though, the truth does hurt, as I’m sure most of this letter does. This too, is not an evil thing.
I am going to stop writing this letter now, because I have said enough, I think. I am sorry if I have cause you heartache in the past months, and I hope you can forgive me. I love you, mommy, and I just want you to accept me, flaws and all.
Love, Sparkle

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Open Letter To Despicable You, Dr. Tara Knowles


Oh most vile and detestable of all fictional television characters, Tara Knowles,

(Otherwise known as Jax’s love interest in Sons of Anarchy)

Let me begin by saying that I have loathed you from the first. First episode, first sighting, first monstrous scowl.

I began watching Sons of Anarchy as I suppose many fans have- on Netflix. I can say from the very first episode, I abhorred you and your self-righteous attitude. I might add that too, I have repudiated the forehead crease that is forever present on your bitchy face. It is because of said crease, and not your unlikable self that I have long wished that a ghastly and atrocious demise might have visited you in the first season, and then second, and third, and so on. Sadly, we can’t all have what we wish for, now can we, Dr. Knowles? Hmmmm?

I understand your desire to be forever united nakedly with your equally fictional love interest, Jax Teller. After all, he is quite easy on the eyes, and his character, though questionably written, is endearing and sweet. However, you should know by now that you cause him (to almost quote Sinnead O’Connor) more sorrow alive than you would dead. It seems harsh, I know, but think on it for a moment- if you were to meet an untimely death by, say having a runaway van run over your head, the next episode might find Jax seeking comfort in the puss of some woman much hotter than you, and you could still be afforded an open-casket funeral, since tire tracks across your face would blend in quite nicely with the significant wrinkle already between your eyebrows.

Instead of being an acceptable Old Lady to your hot biker man, and trying to emulate his tough and respected equally hot fictional mother, Gemma, you, Miss Knowles, have stooped to low-down and wretched acts that I cannot even mention. (because it would spoil the show for those not yet caught up.) Let us just say that I do NOT feel bad that Jax cheated on you while you were forced to muff-dive in jail, because even an older, stretched-out madame is of more interest than you. You’re all “oh, boohoo, I’m not happy being part of the MC” and “boohoo, I hate my mother-in-law”. Suck it up, bitch. Nobody likes their MIL, but not everybody is so lucky to have a pretty bad-ass built in family.

I’m hoping that the writers of SOA will find it in their hearts to put you and I out of our misery and kill you off in (PLEASE!) the next episode or two. I would even be willing to play the part of a vixenish assassin hired to dispose of you, only to wind up  being the TRUE love of Jax’s life. Whatever happens, Dr. Knowles, I just thought you needed to know that even though you aren’t real, there are people out there you harbor real animosity toward you. Having the same last name as Beyonce’ doesn’t help in the least.

Malevolently,

Sparklebumps

 

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An Inquisition to the Wretched Sun


Oh Most (In My Opinion) Un-Magnificent Ball of Sky Fire,

My mind is boggled by the harsh and cruel way you do treat me. I have done a good thing, of my own volition- I have offered to take my Rockstar’s Daughter to the beach- yet you seem intent on punishing me savagely for doing so.

I think it was not even 3 hours we spent under your shine, with sunscreen being re-applied multiple times, and yet today I feel uncomfortable heat on my shoulders, and must go to work sans face-powder, which will only make me looked as if caked in flour.

It seems you have had it in for me from even my years as a small child. I glaringly remember the lacking in my mother’s mothering when I came home from camping when I was 5  resembling a lobster with bleach-blonde hair. Too, I recall several trips to the cabin with my Ex-hubby when he refused to properly smear my Coppertone 45 across my exposed back, which led to his own discomfort as I whined pitifully through the night of my pain and suffering. I must point out to you, oh great and might Horus, ’tis not my own doing that I am descended from Scandanavian vampires. I seem to remember a line from the film The Exorcist that perfectly fits my problem- “Why?! Why you do this to me, Demi?!”

I realize that the cadaverous-like pale shade of my skin doth be a color that no SPF 30, 0r 45, or even 100 is able to protect. It’s true that the brightness of my white epidermis may rival your own glorious luminosity, and that is why you, dear Sun, are so intent on ruining me. If it be so, let this be a declaration of war.

However, I do not wish to obliterate you, Day Star, for our world would surely perish; I am not yet fully prepared to be mother to the Earth. And so, a truce must be met.

I promise not to tempt you with my pasty skin, and do solemnly vow to stay indoors or under shade trees whenever you are about. I implore you to take it easy on my ruined skin, for there are already many sun spots that are not freckles that mar my not-yet-forty-year-old skin. I am quite content being as pale as a Nicole Kidman Vampire, and I have half a mind to call Coppertone and Hawaiian Tropic out on their false advertising.

Sincerely (Because I have to be, you are a mightier being than I)

Sparklebumps

 

 

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An Appeal to Lex and Terry


Lex and Terry are the creators of a totally awesome morning show that’s on the radio in Texas. They also happen to be aired anywhere that’s anywhere, which includes St. Cloud, where I live. I’ve decided it’s about time they knew about me.

Dear uber-sexy bald man Lex and slightly less-sexy-but-still-awesome-in-a-creepy-way Terry,

You are the Gods of Morning Radio, and should be told so every day. I love listening to you whenever I happen not to be a lazy ass and actually get outta bed before 9 am.

Lex, your voice is so silkily smooth and deep that I am forced to turn down  my radio when you speak, because it causes the bass speakers in my amazing yellow truck to rumble, and I do not want to be mistaken for one of those infantile morons who blows their entire paycheck on subs for their vehicles. I adore your perfectly-round head, and anytime I think about it, I want to rub my hands (and perhaps some other choice body parts) all over it. You are like a shorter, slightly-less-buff Christopher Meloni. Morning radio would be forever jaded if you happened to wreck your vocal chords. (Or dent your impeccable head.)

Terry, I must admit that your radio voice terrorizes me on a daily basis- but it’s not for me to judge those who chose to put you on the radio. Clearly, you make it work, which shows us all how clearly awesome you are in other aspects; aspects I have yet to determine. I’ve come to notice that when you guys play Name that Tune off of your ipods, you happen to have just horrendous taste in music, and the fact that you would consider me obese based off of my weight makes me chagrined to meet you- but I think when you realize that 25 of that poundage is in my bra, you will quickly reconsider.

I want to applaud you boys for employing such a seductive creature as Dee. He and his big black ass are an amazing asset to your show, and when he makes me laugh during your Round Table Raps, I just wanna squishhimtodeathwithmyboobiesandsmoochhislittlehead! He won my heart when he did a spot on rendition of a Jet song awhile back, complete with verbal instrumentals.

The point of this letter is to  let you  guys know that I and my DDD’s would be a lovely addition to your show. I seem to remember you used to have Drunk Girl Friday. Let me assure you, I AM your Drunk Girl Friday. Technically, when I am home, I drink on Tuesdays, but if you flew me down every Friday, I most certainly be willing to adjust my libation schedule. I’ve been told that I’m quite entertaining when I drink, (although “entertaining” is perhaps not the word my Rockstar would use) and I believe your show needs a big dose of womanliness. (I was going to put femininity, but it doesn’t look right when I spell it.)

Which brings me to another matter.

You may have noticed I failed to mention the female portion of your little team.

I must admit that I question your judgement(s ?) daily for hiring Sarah as your radio gal. Her lack of personality is very apparent  on the radio, or perhaps she HAS personality that just isn’t apparent on the radio. Every time she mentions her lizards or carried on about her Love Boat boyfriend in the past, I just wanna climb through my truck radio and squeeze her little neck til her head pops off! I’ve been told that the women from Texas are the hottest in the world- I must be frank- Sarah is not one of them. Although she does have a very fun tattoo. I’m sure if I was to meet her, we would get along swimmingly. (Or tear each other’s clothes off, which I’m sure you wouldn’t disapprove of.)

Anyhoo, I’ve rambled on enough. If you guys feel like adding a few cup sizes and laughs to your show, let me know! I love ya forever!

Much Booby-Squishes and Ass-Slaps,

Sparklebumps

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Unavailable


Ooh, Victoria’s Secret,

How I do loath the way you discriminate!

Yes, it’s true that I have drunk (drank, drinken?) a goodly amount of Three Olives Marilyn Monroe Strawberry Vodka, but do you so needlessly need to deny my succulent boobage support?!

I do not understand the source of your immeasurable hatred, oh Goddess Shop of Lingerie. I seem to remember a time when you so fervently provided me with a seemingly endless amount of credit. Is it because the credit you provided me on my sparkly credit card did INDEED end, and that I thereafter ceased to repay it? For that I am truly regretful, and feel you should no longer hold a grudge.

It’s true that my excessive breasteses make people jealous on occasion, but I see not the reason your website continues to deny me access to the adorable and ultra-sexy leopard-print multi-way bras by repeatedly telling me said cutesy boulder holders are unavailable in sizes that are 38 and DDD, which happen to be my size. Do you not see profit in charging such endowed women as I $62 per bra? I must urge you to reconsider.

I implore you, most decadent of stores, my body can no longer fruitfully function in less -than- designer booby buckets. My skin has made a clear statement that it shall forever hold an aversion to inferior bras; each night I return home from long hard days as a Pizza Slut only to find the alabaster skin beneath my boobies red with irritation at my cheap and unsupportive Walmart bras. I have more than once considered going sans bra at work, which, while that would not be a disappointment to my many fellow male employees, I would not at all feel comfortable pointing my teetage in their general direction.

And so, dearest Victoria, please cover my Secrets and desist from telling me my size is disconcertedly and permanently “Unavailable”.

Love Always,

Sparklebumps

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