1. Saturday, July 12, 2003

    ive been writing a lot of letters lately. 

    dear raymi the minx,

    god i love you.

    please dont be sad any more. nobody wants you sad.

    maybe you should get oot of canidumb.

    move to america where you belong.

    where we all belong.

    maybe you and i should trade spaces.

    like exchange students except we’ll be exchange bloggers.

    you say you have writers block:

    “i have what you call writer’s block these days. i just can’t put words together. i don’t know what to tell you. and what to not say. i want to tell you about how i went mad but maybe that is meant for the book.”

    writers block happens when you block yourself from writing.

    youre raymi the minx, you dont have to worry about what to not say. if minx’s dont say the things others would not say, then how minxy is she any more? i say it would be negative minxy. bordering on republican.

    and the book they will buy.

    write the book in the blog. i did it and people were happy. if you do it people will be even happier because you will include cds of never before seen photographs in the book.

    youd make millions.

    canadian.

    oh raymi. can i call you raymi? hold on to your skateboarder boy and fight the demons who say youre not this or not that. youre it. theyre just jealous. and ugly. and not saved. like us.

    twenty is a tough age. youre probably not listening to let it be enough.

    its ok to cry when youre twenty. and feel like a failure. and be confused.

    just remember to have a lot of sex.

    and write: a ton.

    i love you raymi.

    get well soon.

    stop taking the meds. those fuckers would have shock treatmented your ass fifty years ago. and thrown leeches on you back in the day. or burned you.

    they dont know shit. they make me sick.

    give your boy anti a lick.

    blonty fierce