Dear Desiree,
This might come as a bit of a shock to you, considering how we haven't met and all, but I really, really want you out of my life. I want you so far out of my life whatever star brings you morning light can't reflect back to me in even a hundred million years. I want you out of my life so hard Thor's mighty hammer seems soft. I want to send you back to whatever stinking, slimy pit you slunk out of and seal it right back up with miles and miles of boiling, bubbling lava.
You're probably offended by now. Honestly, why could you be? You're the bane of all existence! I'm sure you've heard it before. Why does this come as a surprise that you're hearing it from me? Well, I suppose it's because I couldn't keep away from you. I brought this on myself, I guess. On both of us, really. It's just... How could I not? I mean, you know how you are. How enticing you can be. With a flick of your eyes away go the pants and I'm ready to roll. So I take it back, looking at it now. I brought on nothing. This was all you. You and your spite and your lust. And your Desire.
Yes, we've come to the root of it, ladies. Miss Desiree in Oklahoma, Lady Desiree from Ohio, Madam Desiree in Minnesota, and the Desirees of all the other forty-seven states (and however many countries. That number's always changing.) this isn't about you. No, not directly. It is your name-mother with which I have wrath. So I apologize if I have, to you, seem harsh.
But your name-mother must know. She must hear it. And you must hear it, too. She is a wicked, vile wretch. A true witch among hapless mortals. She ensnared our kind when the race was young, and her calloused claws have refused to let us go. In the beginning she was a far less sinister force, even, perhaps, a guiding hand showing us what to eat and when to eat it. How to sleep and when to sleep it. Who to love and how to love them. That power has corrupted her. She guides us now more quickly to our demise than ever we have raced before.
How now I wish to suck her from my mind. Call the nearest liposuction surgeon and demand to have her yanked from my brain and tossed away like the tumor she is. She's made me made, name-daughters, made me awfully, insanely mad. How could I not be? I ask you from my knees: how could I not be? The way she whispers such delicious thoughts day in and day out, one after the other like a colony of ants discovering the sugar grain in a cabinet. And how, like those ants, I obey those whispers. My body moves against my brain, gleefully indulging in whatever heinous delight she's brought to offer.
To my thighs, that will go. My gut, my butt. My pride, my ego. And worst of all my conscious.
You're a dragon who must be slain, and yet I can't bring myself to hire a slayer. For all the pain you give to me--wrapped in plastic agony and tied in a neat, morose bow--you give me something valuable. It's a diamond in the rough, no doubt about that, and a lesser prospector might quit his pan before it paddles on by. I see it though, you sneaky bitch. I see what you've hidden within the Playboy Mansion at the heart of a cake by a hammock on a lake. I see it. I see that without all the shit you throw at me, all the temptations I want to tear from my brain, I can never be half of what I want. I see that it is you that has made me what I am, and I am at your mercy to be who I eventually will be.
I see that without desire, there can't be humanity.
Sincerely,
An Overindulgent Man
