Remember that time your mom went on currently-broken Twitter in the dawn hours and wrote you an embarrassing and sort of malevolent self-help book? I mean sure, your mom has definitely done some kooky stuff in her time, but this is a very strange thing to do, to broadcast to the world a personal, underminey, shouty, passive-aggressive letter via a format that's hard to type. GOD, WHAT IF YOUR MOM DID THAT TO YOU?
Dear Linda,
I am in the middle of a flight to St. Louis to give a reading. I was reading a New Yorker story that made me think of my mother all alone in the seat I whispered to her "I know, Mother, I know." (Found a pen!) And I thought of you – someday flying somewhere all alone and me dead perhaps and you wishing to speak to me.
And I want to speak back. (Linda, maybe it won't be flying, maybe it will be at your own kitchen table drinking tea some afternoon when you are 40. Anytime.) – I want to say back.
[...]Dear neighbor who lived at 67 Morton Street #3B,
I'm sorry you found me asleep in the hallway outside my apartment.
