It's Really a Question
State your purpose.
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Inbox: Many Questions
Howdy, folks. It is time to take another rapid-fire tour through my inbox. Luckily, I’m feeling extra sweet and kind today so I’m sure even the most stupid and patronizing of letters won’t phase the goodness I feel in my heart for all JSDC audience members.
Jessica, what is your favorite thing ever? – Bet
There is a whole page dedicated to this question, which, surprisingly, I get quite often. Not only are you stupid, but in addition you are unoriginal. Perhaps you should stop gambling, “Bet,” and spend some time surfing my site before you gunk up my Inbox. The rest of the world is anxiously awaiting my responses and I’m sure the global community does not appreciate your taking up my time. Haveaniceday.
I noticed that you play a lot of sports and I play softball too. When you play sports do you have any superstitions? – Jennifer
There are a few softball superstitions that I hate. One being that it is bad luck if the bats in the dugout are crossed. This one particularly sucks because then you have to tidy up the dugout in order to rid it of bad omens. I can’t think of any specific superstitions that I have, but when I’m on a team I definitely pick up a routine and I get annoyed if anyone fucks with it. For example: My high school team was a state championship softball team. Before home games I would enter the field through the visitors dugout and walk to our dugout across the field taking care not to disturb any of the chalk lines. I had to have a really thorough warm-up, (don’t rush me!) and then afterwards, during the few minutes before the game started, I would hold a softball in my hand and stare out past the fence at this special little tree that I was rather fond of. I would use this tree-staring technique to center myself. So basically I am not so much superstitious as I am anal, weird and fond of trees. One day I’m going to dig that little guy up and steal him. (First I'll have President C.Sto pass a law allowing tree theft so that I totally won't go to jail.)
J.Sto, who is your best friend? – Marta
Um, hello, that should be obvious by now. Stephen Spielberg. We have tea and then paint each other’s fingernails pink. When he dies I will probably pick C.Sto as my new best friend.
Jessica, What sort of things do you like to get and could I send you something aside from e-mail? -- Katie
Unfortunately I do not yet have a P.O. box for such things. Perhaps if many people want to send me stuff I will invest in one. Things I like to get include but are not limited to: CDs of the sender’s favorite mix of songs, handwritten letters, Harry Winston diamonds, stickers, money, newspaper/magazines clippings related to my interests, appropriate drawings and original art, fancy pens, photos of amazing landscapes (especially if they are ripped out of a wall calendar), ribbon, invitations, books, vintage t-shirts, a motorcycle and photos of people looking at my awesome photos.
(No Goo Monsters, please.)
Hi, I visited http://www.jessicastover.com, and noticed that you're not listed on some search engines! I would like to introduce to you an affordable service where we can help enhance your online presence globally. Do let me know how I may assist you better with workmiracle.com! Best Regards, Elisabeth Brown
Dear “Elisabeth,” You have misspelled your name. Do you have some sort of “z” lisp when you write? Furthermore, I hate you. You are the first spammer to spam me at my JSDC address and for that you must die. In conclusion, workmiracle.com is a flimsy name for a website and I am way too famous across the galaxy to need your assistance. So die a lispy death, fool.
If you were a plant what kind of plant would you be and why? – Greg
The kind that kicks your pansy ass. Or maybe that little tree from the softball field.
Well, that was pleasant after all. I am totally nice.
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BECAUSE I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.
We passed the school where children played
At wrestling in a ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.
Since then ’t is centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses’ heads
Were toward eternity.
-- Emily Dickinson
It's 5:39 PM PT. I'm doing laundry and going over a Shakespearean monologue. My phone rings. Odd, as it is Sunday and I have already talked to everyone back in VA. On the caller ID: M.Sto
What else could she want? I already talked to her for an hour today.
Then, I get that weird feeling… You know, the one where you answer anyway?
“Hey. What is it?”
“Hey (pause) Tommy just died in a really bad car accident.”
“Tommy who?” I asked, even though I knew who she meant.
“Your cousin Tommy.” She sniffed back tears.
I told her to phone me when she knew more about the circumstances.
As evident from the ceiling fan accident, when things go awry, I go into “do something” mode. This time there is no damage control for me to do. Nothing to be saved. No action to take. After a chat with tear-wrought C.Sto, all I can do is try to understand the news.
This is the first time a person I know has died.
The Grizz has six brothers and sisters and the majority of the Stover clan live in or near NOVA. Despite the difficulty of getting a big family together, the Stovers have thrown excellent cookouts and family gatherings over the years and I see the extendeds quite a bit. Plus, when I was in elementary school, Tom worked for the Grizz and was often at our house. He has been around as long as I can remember.
Tom not there for family holidays? Impossible.
His truck went over the side of a bridge and landed in a creek.
I ate pizza with him in the kitchen of our old house, he taught me to play horseshoes, he made me laugh during family volleyball games and challenged me to ping-pong, he went four-wheeling with us…
The cab was crushed; its roof touched the seat.
I'm not saying that Tom doesn't have troubles, but if he does, I do not know them well.
I’m afraid that this entry is not very good, but what does one write a few minutes after hearing a family member has died?
He has a 4-year-old daughter named Rachel.
The last time I saw him was at my Grandmother's on Christmas.
You can tell that Tom has a good heart by looking at him.
You could tell that Tom had a good heart by looking at him.
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