Dear Sookie

Posted on August 19, 2010

6


Dear Sookie,

Sit down, girl, let’s talk.

Look, I’m gonna try not to be too judgmental here. First of all, I know you spent most of your life with copious amounts of peroxide seeping into your skull – which can never be good. So your decision-making skills may have been affected by the sustained brain damage. One only has to look at your JC Penney summer dress collection and those Dollar General attempts at accessorizing to know that. And you haven’t gotten out much, we know. You stayed in a town where your best career opportunity was working at a low-rent redneck Hooters rip-off (I mean, is that even possible?); you spent most of your free Wednesday nights and Thursday nights and Sunday afternoons in bible study with your grandmama; you relaxed on your days off by layin’ in the sun or watching reruns of The Colbys on Soap Opera Network. Your horizons were limited; sympathy ensues.

And yeah, yeah I know that whole chasing vampire ass quiets down all those voices in your head blah blah blah bit. Personally, I’ve found that a second bottle of Boone’s Farm Sun Peach Peak helps me with that, but, hey, you do you. Plus, you seemed to have gotten quite a handle on controlling your noise in the head problem. You can usually completely block it out most of the time unless it becomes essential to the plotline that week, so you’re obviously making progress. Which is all the more reason I would like to suggest that you make a clean break from Mister Gone With the Wind and his excessive abuses of hair product.

But on the real tip, I know how it is. I’ve dated guys who have completely sucked the life out of me and left me for dead in the back of a moving van only to show up the next night expecting fellatio in the shower. I mean, who hasn’t? I totally get it. But you need to step away from the undead penis. Cuz, girl, this is really starting  to look like a “What’s Love Got to Do With It” type of situation and unless you got $1.95 on your charge card and some swollen-lipped celebrity clout to mumble your way into the concierge’s heart, the nearest HoJo will not be your refuge, Anna Mae. You need to tell Ike to go straight to hell, and move on.

It’s a frustrating choice, I can imagine. Clearly the local river of romance doesn’t run too deep. After all, your brother is the best catch in town. And although he does have the physique of a triathlete, the tousled blond locks and the sparkly eyes that make most girls change their draws faster than Fantasia Barrino changes pharmacists, he is — well, let’s face it, he’s slightly retarded. Actually he’s probably somewhere more like halfway between “slightly” and “headgear” stage so whatever that is. Which is to say, the bar has clearly not been set too high in the quaint village of Good Times.

It’s true that you did consider giving your boss Sam a shot, I will concede. But even though he’s the nicest guy in town and can wear the hell out of a pair of jeans, he ached longingly to take care of you and thought you were really, really hot and all that was a total turn-off for you. Which, obviously, makes tons of sense. Then there’s Eric, who’s also a vampire and can quiet down all that commotion bouncing around inside your skull. He’s tall, sophisticated, can speak several languages, and has the ability to fly but he used to be a Viking so you don’t trust him. I’ll give you that one, though, since if history hasn’t taught us anything else, it’s taught us that you can’t trust white people. So bonus points there.

But, sisterfriend, the world has opened up. Where before you had only hillbillies and Transylvanians, now you have werewolves too. And one tall, big, fine ass werewolf in particular who has a penchant for spending most of his time shirtless. He’s built like a brickhouse, is gainfully employed, and seems to have pretty low self-esteem. Sounds like the perfect man to me! Oh, and judging by his ex-girlfriend, Debbie, that whole skanky aesthetic works for him so you’re safe there too. Sure, he might be slightly cross-eyed but if his eyes are the asset you’re paying most attention to then maybe men aren’t your thing after all. In which case you might ought to hit up Pam, or Queen Sophie-Ann or that hard-jawed Vampire League bitch who’s always on CNN or any of the female vamps around because, apparently, they’re all lesbians. (Except for Bill’s former baby-mama Lorena, of course, but you stuck that grumpy heifer with a ceiling beam and left her for a pile of black currant jelly so that point is moot.)

Now I would never call you a “dumb bitch” because of the choices you make, however ill-informed. But luckily Tara already did that for me a couple of episodes ago so, listen, you dumb bitch, get it together. Even Jessica had the good sense to let Hoyt go because she knew that no matter how much she wanted him to eat her biscuits, and not those of that demonic doll-obsessed Hobbit he’s currently dating, it wouldn’t work out. And you’re technically a decade older than Jessica. Which, given your propensity for baking your behind in the backyard, means you’ve only got five, six good years left before you become the next Arlene and then you’ll have to settle for serial killers and mentally deranged former POW’s. And no one wants to drive down highway Agent Orange until they have to.

So let’s try a little harder, shall we Miss Stackhouse? Leave Bill Compton to his Wii golf and his crumbling plantation and try a little wolf-loving on for size. You never know how well it might fit.

Oh, and tell Lafayette to call me. That bitch still owes me five dollars from last week when we went shopping at the Ann Taylor Loft!

With love,
the moody box fan

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Posted in: moody tintypes