I write. I travel. I drink. Tweets by @NateAbernethy
For those of you who don’t recognize that fair woodland nymph, her name is Kate Micucci and she’s an adorable comedian, musician, actress, and most notably one half of the brilliant musical comedy duo Garfunkel & Oates. I decided to reward her hard work and variety of talent by getting drunk and bombarding her with love letters. Upon awakening the next morning I was mortified at my crimes, and knew it had to be shared.
I was browsing HBO’s website the other day looking to see when the premiere of Boardwalk Empire is since now that Breaking Bad is on hiatus I have nothing to do with myself come Sunday nights. When I was surprised and delighted to see that the Garfunkel and Oates show is now a reality. This revelation set off a chain of reactions on my part, primarily focused around harassing my friends who can spring for premium cable to see if I can mooch off their subscriptions. However it also reminded me that I have previously sworn my love and adoration to you. Of course this is unbeknownst to you, but yes you have stolen the heart of an average looking, mildly creepy twenty something.
Now perhaps it was due to the current intake of alcohol or the egging on of friends who enjoy the uncomfortable situations I create, but for whatever reason upon my rekindled desire I decided I should start writing weekly love letters to woo you. So here goes attempt one, I figure I’ll ease you into it and make the initial letter more of a introductory notice to at least give you fair warning of the awkwardness in the weeks ahead. Obviously the ideal situation here is that you are so overcome with the depth, charm, and raw emotion of my words that I win you over and we live happily ever after in a cabin in Big Sur. Barring that outcome though I figured this would at least give me something to do to avoid more tasking activities, because unfortunately despite my many obvious redeeming qualities I am also a great sufferer in the ways of procrastination. It will also allow my peers the opportunity to get a chuckle out of my cringe worthy efforts to court you.
So why bother writing this if you may never see it and if it most likely will not have its desired effect? I reckon the worst case scenario is you read this and the fact that someone out there genuinely thinks you’re wonderful will brighten your day at least a little… well either that or I’ll be receiving my summons for a restraining order shortly. Speaking of restraining orders, my timing in writing this letter happens to be ideal as I just now noticed you are playing the Improv in Addison this weekend. Only a stone’s throw away from where I grew up! So should you receive this letter in time and are not completely sketched out, let me know if you would like to grab a coffee in a well lit public place and it would be my delight to come see the show and buy you some kind of pumpkin flavored or fall themed latte. That’s it! I’ll let you off easy week one, but expect love poems and forced romantic metaphors in the near future.
Your well meaning admirer and most definitely non-serial murderer,
It’s been over a month since my move and I still haven’t settled in at my new place. Something just doesn’t feel right. There are many things I will not miss about West Campus, paying twice the rent I am now is chief among them. Somehow I’m managing to carry on without the sound of a screeching bus filled with drunks pulling up outside my window at 3 am, or the battle cries of “Come at me bro!” as the fratbros from said bus empty into the streets. The slurred inquiry for directions by the sorostitutes stumbling in their 10 inch heels as they shout up at my balcony. The constant fear of being towed from my own apartment complex by the satanic cult of a towing company. The incessant leaking of my air conditioning. All of these things will not be missed, but there was one factor of living in West Campus that I was quite sad to part with. That’s you. Yes you, the dude who works the counter at the corner store. There’s a 7-11 within spitting distance of my current residence, but that cashier doesn’t get me like you did. I’m saddened to say I never asked for your name, but then again I feel that added to the charm of our relationship. No names, just one kind Indian cashier and one beaten down West Campus outcast. You saw me at my worst corner store man, and you never judged me for it. When I rolled up 5 minutes before closing and roamed the aisles looking for the most fattening munchies possible you never said anything; you just gave me this sad but understanding look. When I cleaned out the beer fridge on a Tuesday afternoon and it was obvious it was all for me you showed me warmth and kindness so I wouldn’t drink myself to death. On the rare occasions where I needed to buy condoms you swelled with pride for me. You made me feel like you were genuinely invested in seeing me live a fulfilling life, but didn’t think less of me when I continued to live my unhealthy, pathetic one. So I thank you corner store man, you were the unsung hero of my daily routine. Should I ever feel the desire to visit an area where I will receive belittling looks from a gaggle of popped collars and khaki shorts, or should I decide my eyes need another dose of blinding neon, aesthetically-upsetting sorority shirts? Your humble store will be the first place I stop.