During a game of Truth, Dare, or Filth in #filth this past week, someone dared someone else to write an open letter to a person they’d like to have sex with. We decided to use it as our next #musings round robin, which we did in #filth again. To make it more readable, as usual, we’ve formatted the session with proper breaks, and you’ll see [#] to indicate who wrote the next bit. We hope you’re as amused reading it as we were writing it!
To the Girl with the Patent-leather Payless 4-inch Platform Stilettos
 MISSED CONNECTION
To the person who was lurking outside the Crossroads this past Tuesday,
I was intrigued and tantalised, to say the least. I had been coming out of the Crossroads, which I’m sure you know is probably the diviest watering hole in town since you were lurking outside. You weren’t just hanging about or even simply passing by. You were outright lurking, and I couldn’t help but notice  the way your buttocks clenched as you bent forward to stretch a hamstring with your hand against the wall. Your ratty cut-offs did wonders for the fantasic hue of your back thighs, gleaming in the moonlight as if marble pillars.
I knew then that one day, I would gain the courage to come up and talk to you, and ask you which side of the family you got all the junk in your trunk from. When I heard the click of your vintage zippo lighter, and smelled the aroma of a lit cigar, I paused. When you stood straight up, turned around and saw me, I blanked. I heard you ask, “What the hell is wrong with the price of lemons these days? I mean way back in the day you’d get lemons for at least 1 cent a fruit.”
I was intrigued further by your passion about lemons and the price there of that as I listened to see if you would dispense any of more this truthspeak about citrus fruits, I noticed how you had a Hello Kitty ring on the forefinger of
your right hand. I felt it added a touch of femininity to your look and just made me want to get to know you that little bit better. I did try to approach you further.
Unfortunately at the moment I decided to make my big advance I was obstructed by a dog that charged by, his anguished whines muffled and echoed both by the enormous polyurethane foam mask of Peter Griffin from Family Guy that covered his head. You ran off before I could say another word.
“I have to save the poor doggy,” you cried, and I felt a pang of passionate fire sear my chest as I watched you run, lickety-split, after that dog. Your tiny Daisy Dukes pockets flapped against your flawless, sun-kissed skin, white flags flying on Fort Denim on the Peach Prairie. I had to have you, but as I pursued you my deviated septum acted up and I found myself gasping for breath.
Your grace as you stumbled, breaking a heel in your patent-leather payless 4-inch platform stilettos without breaking stride, thrilled me to the core and I watched, shaking, struggling to breathe through my passion and my aforementioned devated septum as you scooped up at poor litthe pup, sitting down on the curb to pull the mask off the suffering dog.
I finally had my moment and made my way to you to find out your name, when all of a sudden, from around the corner, a racket, and a quickly approaching herd of swankily dressed cats. They weren’t actually cats, obviously, since they were clothed, but they had come out of The Crossroads shortly after I gave chase after you. I call them cats, because they looked like what you’d imagine a gentleman would look like who just wandered out of a Kerouac novel. They were kind of scruffy around the edges, but impeccably dressed.
I couldn’t be sure if they were downtrodden men who told their spouses they were heading out for work or if they were part of that seedy element that The Crossroads is so well-known for. It didn’t really matter. Their not quite kempt appearance and the way they raucously ignored you and the poor dog on the curb had me fearful for you. I was about to intervene when, to my surprise, one of them addressed you in a manner I’m not sure was insulting as much as it was affectionate, “C’mon, fuckface, we’ve got business to attend to.”
I stood, watching in confusion as the herd of cats, you, and the pup, continued down the street toward an unknown destination. I tried to follow again, but your long jaunty strides were difficult. For block after block, I was able to catch up only to see you turning each corner. My calves were killing me as I finally saw your group stop again and hand off the pup in exchange for what appeared to me 3D jigsaw puzzles of an old windmill with broken windows and a Whoopi Goldberg bust.
I do miss Whoopi from the 90’s, she did a rather fun job in that nun singing film. Anyway I digress. I had to hang back a bit because I got a touch of the stomach butterflies, for this is the affect you have on me, well that and the giving you chase all those blocks. I just didn’t want you to see me not yet and as I saw the look in your eye, it now became clear one of your eyes was a glass one, so only one of your eyes was looking at the puzzles with great interest.
It was strange because you were inspecting them as if they were a Rembrandt or a Faberge egg. The way your scruffy, bony hands fondled the puzzles and your tongue lewdly licked your lips, I have to say I was a bit turned on there and then. I was gaining the courage to again try and move on up to talk to you when I was surrounded by a gang of Flying toilets, ceramic commode fixtures with brilliant white wings that flapped up and down lazily in a way that could not possibly conform to Bernoulli’s principle as it applied to Newton’s laws.
In short, there was no logical way that the toilet could be able to fly, and yet it was. Still, this glaring error in physics filled me with courage, and I attempted to fend them off by swinging my fists around. But I was struck in the side of the head by a toilet paper roll that came seemingly from nowhere, and passed out. When I came to, I saw your beautiful ankles. But my joy turned to horror as I realized that your shoes were full of  shimmering glitter, moving in undulating waves as you made minute changes to your posture, a tiny dance to some imperceptible music, hypnotizing me. I was powerless, fascinated by the gleaming pillars that filled my vision.
How could I raise my eyes to your torso, your face if the sight of your ankles and feet moved me so? I was smitten, pierced through the very heart by everything you are. I trembled in abject awe to be so near you as to feel the heat of your body. So fascinated by just the 4 inches of you I could see, the flying toilet chaos where you stood was just a ghost of a murmur. You may have said something, I don’t know, my heart was pounding in my ears and I could hardly catch my breath, my chest tight with something akin to worship, my deviated septum whistling feebly as I struggled to surface in the murky waters of my need for you to even try to understand.
You tried again, louder, and it finally cut through the fog of desire, and just as I heard you ask me if I was okay, I realised that I’d fainted. That blasted deviated septum always caused issues at the wrong time. I do so wish that if you happen to read this, you’ll get back to me at the soonest. Please respond via this outlet.
Your unfortunately fainted admirer.
Dear unforunately fainted admirer:
I remember you, laying there in the street looking like the devil was standing over you. This is why I did not purse your care further. I felt like my very presence was repugnant even as I embraced the Whoopi bust with one arm and the fabulous new puzzle in the other. My friends assured me you would be fine, and I was compelled to believe them. You paint me in a strange light, I must admit that I’m intrigued, but…. I feel as if you’ve objectified me to the point that I will never be up to your standards.
You neglected to answer my question about the price of oranges, by your own admission. How can my heart go on? Even as I write this I am looking at my hands and they are far from bony and are actually rather chubby and covered in thick matted hair, even on that top bit just below the nails. Docs have told me it’s genetics, kids at school just called me Hobbit. The point is when I look at myself in the mirror I don’t see the person you see.
I read over your missed connection at least twice, okay maybe once properly and then a second time scanning it for that one time you swore. And, I have to say, were you even looking at the same person. Sure, the details indicate that it was me, but I am not nearly as cool as you make me out to be. My life has actually been a fairly miserable trainwreck until I saw your post and I have to admit I did consider…not topping myself but moving to Nebraska and becoming a hermit of some kind.
Not even a hipster hermit with a bald cat. One of those hairy, Sasquatch kind of hermits that you read about in National Enquirer. But when i saw your post and the way you eloquently and well, creepily depicted our near-meeting, I thought I had real value to give to the world. I woke up the next morning with a spring in my step and a spring in my shoe, damn fucking springs and decided to do something with my life. Make a difference. Try and make the world a differnt place. so after about 45 seconds of deliberation after waking up and having a cup of coffee with just a *hint* of crack, I decided to join a convent. I will live chastely, in a world of goodness, kindness, generosity, hope, faith, charity, and all that stuff.
I’m quite fetching in a habit, as those long bell sleeves cover up those hands quite well. The other sisters keep telling me god doesn’t make mistakes, so I’ve found some peace in that, too. And I rock the wimple, let me tell you! And I have you to thank for this. Bless you, my friend. During morning prayers today, I thought about you. I held you tenderly in my prayers, remembering that night, your unconscious body curled at my feet, ceramic commodes buzzing around like some obnoxious pelicans, my treasures clutched in my startlingly hairy hands, and realized the emptiness in my life was going to consume me.
But you made me see that I was more than just a dive bar regular with an amazing badonkadonk, impeccable taste in clothing and accessories, and an odd fetish for Whoopi Goldberg. I could be someone! And so I am. And it’s all thanks to your encouraging letter, and the fact that you even noticed me. The “cats”, by the way, are my brothers. When I showed them your letter, they vaguely remember that you’d chased after me down the street. By some stroke of luck, I was able to convince them that you couldn’t possibly have been running after me, because, after all, I’ve never really been anyone special. They were still convinced that you were some sort of raving lunatic out to do me harm, but I distracted them with the distressed pup, the raining comodes, and that I just wanted to go home.
You see, I had been stood up on a blind date. They thought you were the one who was supposed to meet me, but they realised after I showed them your letter that you couldn’t possibly be that person. They’re still sure that you’re unhinged, and are fully encouraging my change to the life in the cloister. Did you know that the raining bathroom parts were due to a wall somehow exploding in the building above? Anyway, this new life is much better.
I no longer have a hint of crack with everything, though the first time someone from the outside offered me a rock, I was more than a little tempted to purchase it using the two months of allowance I had for personal hygiene saved up; I only use soap and water, and I’m of the No-poo camp. I wish I could express the depth of my gratitude fully, but I can’t.
I want you to know that some where out there, there’s another hairy handed girl waiting for you with a cigar and an irritation for sky rocketing price of fruit. Maybe one day, when the Good Lord calls us home, we’ll meet again.  Maybe someday they will not stand you up for a blind date. Maybe they will even be blind. I’ve heard blind people make good lovers, not to say there is any problem with the deaf. They hear nothing but see everything.
The point is, I want to enrich your life in the same way your post did mine. If you contact the number I have given the editorial staff of this fine website, they will give you another phone number. Trust your instincts as you did that day, this wild goose chase will take you somewhere special. You may end up in prison and if you are arrested, please do not tell them where you got the massive shipment of crack from. The nuns don’t like one of their own dealing in the evil white devil dust.
Yours, solemly in christ.
BTW…my hands are not chubby, fucking sizist bastard.