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Y.P.R. & Co.

Monday, September 13, 2004

Dear Y.P.R.
Kim Needs to Talk

from: Kim Bosch []
to: Y.P.R. []

My dear Y.P.R.,

Can you give me $48,000 dollars? Canadian dollars? I ask only because I really need the money. You see I would like to try and go to school in N.Y.C. Funny really. APPARENTLY it costs a SHITload to go to school in the U.S. Maybe I’m prematurely ejaculating with hope here, since I have yet to apply or even get in anywhere.

Let me tell you about what’s going on with me … let me, rewind.

In May I finished my undergrad and now I’m working in Scarborough (Toronto’s ’hood). Office shit. I won’t bore you with the details… but I will say this: I’m the youngest person who works here and everyone is trying to suck the life out of me in hopes that it will smooth their wrinkles.

I’m living with my parents in the rural suburbs of Ontario. It takes me an hour to get to work everyday. My father postulates everything out loud:

Dad: {{{Drinking a can of Coke}}}
Me: Did you know that Coke is in trouble for putting saccharin in their fountain drinks?
Dad: Saccharin?
Me: Yeah, it causes cancer in lab rats.
Dad: Oh… well, that’s O.K. I’m not planning on rubbing it on my skin.

My mother is alarmed when I make both too much and too little noise. If I’m making TOO much noise she worries that I’m restless and constipated, but if I make too little noise she worries that I’m dead. And she likes to do things… things like coming into my room to take the laundry from my laundry hamper at 7 a.m.

My Irish boyfriend is now living here for good. With me. At my parents’ house. This is both great and scary. However I find myself feeling boxed in at times, like when he’s teaching himself to play “Here Comes the Sun” on his guitar… OVERTOP of a CD playing in the room already. Plus immigration shit sucks. Things like fingerprints and proving our love for each other to governmental strangers.

And of course the pressure of marriage. That everything would be much easier if we got married. And my biological clock is causing me to have dreams about tiny little Thumbelina-type children who I squash within the first hours of their birth, only to have them come back to life, horribly disfigured, asking me to change a diaper they aren’t wearing…

And a brother who still, at 25, farts on my head.

Where am I going? What am I doing? Where have all the flowers (of my youth) gone? Don’t answer these questions… they’re hypothetical and beneath both you and I.

Back to life,
Back to reality.