To Mary
Because you would kill me for muttering contrary.
Ron.

Dear Mary,
I saw this little tree growing up out of cracked pavement, over by the rusting metal footbridge, by the golf course. We spoke for a while; golf balls whizzing my by ear. It told me to tell you hello.
~ Ron.

Dear Ron,
You're the ultimate bastard.
love,
Mary


To Mary,
Wish you were on a train with me.
Love,
Ron.


To Ron -
I'll never ride on a train with you, ever.
Love,
Mary

ps - unless maybe you were rich and willing to buy me a condo
pps - just kidding

Dear Mary,
I think you should consider travel by train. It is a satisfying alternative to walking. And you only have to put up with my particular anecdotes for a mere couple days.
Ron.

Dear Ron,
I'll take the train as long as you're not on it.
Mary

Dear Mary,
I'm on every train. Deal with it.
Ron.

Dear Ron,
I hate you.
love,
Mary

Dearest Mary,
Your words of disgust fill me with rapture... Will you marry me?
Your loving bastard,
Ron

Dear Ron,
Being with you is like hearing the birds sing 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Actually, I kind of hate those birds.
Love,
Mary

Dear Mary,
Your obsession is as transparent as those new breath mint strips used as pasties; it's all nipple. So, that said, I will be cutting off our correspondence, because I am going away to Alaska to fish the Bering Strait and to hopefully drown. Thank you for your neuroses. They were fun.
~ Ron.

Dear Ron,
WOOHOO!
-- Mary

Dear Mary,
I died. How's the weather?
Ron.

Dear Ron,
How was your funeral? Or did wild animals eat your body?
- Mary

Dear Mary,
I was fished out of the Strait by a Russian fisherman from Krasynorask. He said some sort of ancient enchantment, learned from shamans on the steppe. I thought I had come back to life, but I really had only had rigamortis in my netherregions. Vladimir's daughters like me. Somebody stole my shoes and sold them as fish lockers.
Ron.

Dear Ron,
I got stuck in traffic today and the guy next to me was singing Gordon Lightfoot songs really loudly and then started winking at me. I couldn't drive away and he started throwing pieces of paper into my window and I lit one and threw it back to him.
-- Mary

Dear Mary,
I miss the times we shared. The constant bickering; the nonsensical quips. Now it seems you are distant, falling in love, again. Don't deny it. You once threw lit matches at me, as well. It's ok. I will be alright. I will remain a rotting corpse, that is a sex slave to necrophiliac daughters in Russia. It isn't so bad. I hope you find happiness in another bonfire.
Ron.

Dear Ron,
If you weren't dead I might be able to love you, but I'm just not into that shit. It's fuckin gross when you're leg is hanging off like that and the smell would really get to me. I'm glad those damn crazy Russians like it and that you've found you're place in this world. If you ever get resurrected, come back and see me. I'm opening up a donut shop and baseball card store.
-- Mary

Dear Mary,
If you are receiving this message, you must be psychic. Mother Olga boiled me in a pot, earlier today, and used my bones to make new kitchen table. The sheen is to die for... no pun intended. The daughters seem to rub my bones a lot. They must like the shine, too. Or they are mourning lost lust. Either or. Regardless, I will continue to stalk you in the psychic realm. So, I'll be the image that materializes over you bed, dressed in a clown suit just for you. Because clowns are nice and bring joy to the world.
Eternally,
Ron.

Dear Ron,
I hope you're rotting in hell. I'm wearing a mask whenever I go to bed. I created a special donut and named it after you. I make the dough twisty and then smash it with a mallet and then fry it and dip it in chocolate with pink sprinkles. It seems to be a hit, and I love smashing things with mallets. I imagine it's your dead face every time. You're such an inspiration.
Always,
Mary

Dear Mary,
I'm glad to know everything is alright with you, and your business is prospering. I'm sorry for trying to teabag you the other night. Sometimes I forget about the limitations of the spirit realm. But, I thought I would tell you a little trade secret.... UFO's... They're really arcs of ejaculate expelled from this dimension, that slip through perforations between our worlds. I thought you might find it amusing that people search the skies to embrace the cock snot of dead people.
Ron.

PS - Elvis, George Burns, and 2 Pac say Hi.

Dear Ron,
I wish you'd stop sharing so much information with me. Is River Phoenix there?
- Mary

Dear Mary,
Sorry. I am a creature of habit. I still try to molest Alyssa, while she sleeps with Murphy. It's difficult to see everything, yet feel nothing... But, wasn't that the life a voyeur, anyway? River Phoenix is here. He is moody. Hangs with Jim Morrison and Yitzak Rabin.
Ron.

PS - Mae West is really a man in drag.

Dearest Ron,
I tried to tell Alyssa that I still talk to you, but she doesn't believe me. She thinks I'm making it up. I think you should haunt her as a spidery figure, she loves spiders. Tell River I said hi and he's hot. Or was hot. Is he still hot? I'm not sure how that works. I'm opening up a new donut/baseball shop across town. People sure do like to buy more baseball cards now that I give out free donut holes with every card purchase.
Love, luck and lolipops,
Mary

Dear Mary,
River said, "I don't know that bitch." Then went on to sing Rainy Day Woman No. 5, while shivering for heroin. Don't worry about Alyssa believing you or not, or about me, for that matter. I just wanted to tell you that I met someone.... If you watched the evening news, you may know him... Johnny Depp. See. I couldn't fulfill my gay lifestyle while I was alive, but as a dead man, I'm a flamer and two-thirds. Tennessee Williams called me Bitch Boy, et cetera. So, I am now too cool to talk to a heterosexual, like you. If you decide to explore the world of bisexuality or straight up homosexuality, give me a ring on the spirit phone. If not, consider this line disconnected, bitch.
Ron.

Dear Bitch Boy,
If I was homosexual, you've never get into my pants. Then again, you've never get into my pants anyway. I don't want to talk to you anymore either. Have fun being an ass ranger, you pansy.
-- Mary

"The line you have tried to reach is now disconnect. Please hang up the phone and dial, again."

Dear Mary,
I was resurrected as a fly. The other day I landed on your sugary donut. You walloped me. I'm dead, again. I just wanted to say thanks.
Love,
Ron.

Dear Mary,
I am now waiting in line to enter the 3rd circle of hell. I still have 6 more to go. Cerberus, the three-headed demon dog, is now saying I'm next, while he growls and has spittle akin to Predator scenes dripping from its ugly maw. No no. Let me thank you, once again, for a splendid vacation into the afterlife.
I hate you.
Ron.