Dear Ripper Linda,

It was an evening in January. I was lounging on my bed eating fruit. The covers had been peeled back so the mattress gawked bare and expecting. On the walls hung several loving faces, their eyes sharp and bizarre just like the alive. Perhaps they wanted my fruit.

The books on my shelves leaned exhausted. They had such matters to whisper of, bent pages defeated and gossiping. I was listening to the voice of a stranger chirp a twisting melody from my record player and I was eating fruit.

I was definitely peeing. I filled my bed with golden waters and floated triumphant as the sheets undulated like an arrogant stream. I flooded the room. I had a lot of water to drink that day. I had eaten a lot of fruit.

Suddenly the eyes on my walls were pouring flirtatious tears, the rising tide made them cry. The books were tossed about the current as the faces continued to peepee weep. I was still peeing. My organs were empty, dry and growing little pores. It was quite a sensation.

The ceiling was clicking. My neighbor from above, in heels, drew little dots of routine. Her sink was running. It made me have to pee. I can’t stop peeing, Linda.

-M

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Dearest M,

I thank you graciously for your humbling vulnerability and I hold you warmly as you sting raw with tension. This could not have been easy for you. Through the compassionate exploitation of your moderate heroism, I shall deliver dank and beefy wisdom to lovers and the unloved across state lines and generations. But enough about me. If I were to go on, one might consider me vain. Thus, I will proceed no further because I do not wish to come across as vain. I’m a cultural keystone; I listen when no one can hear you. You could say my calling is your call, the delicious whine of my telephone and your voice droning hollow despair. When I’m finished with you, you’ll feel confidence clear as crystal and you’ll be full of charm, plump like a champion.

Indeed, this brings me to your initial intoxicating inquiry. This peeing of yours is a sensation old as a pickled century, shared by many, conquered by few. M, I’ll be frank: you should probably go to the hospital. Maybe your upstairs neighbor can drive you there. While I appreciate the shock and potency of your poetic call for help, (and don’t get me wrong, I do consider myself an Athenian, lover, nay mistress of the arts) I implore you to seek medical attention.

They wouldn’t call me the best of the best if I didn’t know just how to help. While you wait for an ambulance, here are some thoughts you didn’t know you needed:

This obsession with peeing may be more simple than you would expect. Urethral wellbeing is not what’s at stake here. Think about us. You and I, an unlikely pairing not unlike the stale irony of a joke so bad it hugs you like a fleece of guilt. If you wish to wear me like a fleece, I am yours. We can get in my car and drive and eat fruit. You can fill my car with your golden waters and we can go anywhere you like. Have you ever been to the ocean? The universe is yours if you’ll have me.

Now breathe the deepest of inhalations. Flutter open your eyes because they ought to have been closed. This is not where you expected to be, is it? You have a lot to think about, M. Take your time - you know where to find me.

-Ripper Linda

Author note: Linda Ripley P.h.D. (Ripper Linda) studied alternative anthropology at “The Best School For To Get Smart.”. Ripley gives compassionate and uplifting advice for people in crisis, taking special interest in those with nonlinear dilemmas. Ripley is now in her thirtieth year of devotion to this chivalrous social service. Contact Ripper Linda with questions and concerns at ripperlindaripley@gmail.com- a real email address for a sense of security during these surreal times.

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