missed, dearly.
1) I bought my older brother a copy of The Girl With Curious Hair in tenth grade. He gave me a copy of Brief Interviews with Hideous Men for Christmas. We loved you, then. It was you, and rounds of Ginsberg and extracts from Dharma Bums in the garage late at night, sitting on the washing machine with stolen domestic beer and doing our best to channel that particular sort of brilliance.
2) My footnotes are now, and have always been, your fault. I don't think I even knew how to insert them in word processor programs until you. Yours are better.
3) I'm happy you dropped out of your philosophy grad program. Things were better this way.
4) You deserved that MacArthur Grant. Octavia Butler did, as well. No one else, though. Not a one.
5) Your books are in a box in my father's attic. It's been years. I'm going to dig them out. Them, and all of that old, trashy lesbo-fic. It's like missing a finger or two, without you and them on the bookshelf.
6) A best buddy made his students read from Consider the Lobster yesterday, out loud. Thought you should know. He came and told me about it (this hanging business) afterwards, and we proceeded to leave campus and drink one beer, and then another. We were bummed, terribly.
7) Team Dresch wrote a song in the mid-90s entitled 'don't try suicide.' It's on Captain My Captain. It's yours, if you want it.
8) Here it is. Straight from the Cat's Cradle in Carrboro, NC. We should've been there.
