“Dear Kirsten,” by Sameer Saklani

Feb 13th, 2013 | By | Category: Fake Nonfiction, Prose

I can no longer bear this sudden absurdity I’ve found myself in.  You first approached me in class after one of my short stories had been workshopped.  You told me you liked it.  Now I can hear you in the bathroom exfoliating your face or darkening my towels, whatever it may be.  That doesn’t even make sense.  I wrote an imaginary story on paper, a silly and blatant lie, and now I have to engage in dirty, dirty coitus with you.  What happened between those two points?  What is this syllogism?

I know I am rather compliant and have not expressed any dissatisfaction in regards to our relationship.  So breaking ties would seem rather sudden and capricious, and I would risk seeming mentally unsound.  So what follows is a day-to-day documentation of all the miseries and misfortunes I am forced to inure.  I can only hope that upon reading this you will understand that I am owed much pity and contrition and that you will allow me to go my own way without much drama and theatrics.


I was awakened by paramedics knocking on the door.  From what I surmise, you had drunk too much the previous night, woke up with a bad hangover and thought it appropriate to call an ambulance.  By the time they had arrived, you had fallen asleep again.  Therefore I had to attempt to convince a group of paramedics that a girl who was visibly unconscious had not phoned for help


You had drunk no less than 4 glasses of whiskey and put on the film East of Eden.  You began the conversation by saying:

“Sandini, take this lightly, I’ve been drinking heavily.”

You laughed at that.  You laughed more than was warranted.

“Yes?” I said.

“You should be more like James Dean.”

I snickered.

“If I became more like James Dean, I think you’d see a lot less of me.”

“What?” you said.

I hope, in retrospect, you see the irony of this conversation.


You asked me if I wanted to go out.  I said I didn’t.  Two hours later we were at some club.  You had at least three drinks from the bar.  Later, I saw you kiss another person.  Of course, technically we were not exclusive to each other but I questioned you about it anyway.  You made a surprising confession.

You told me:  “Baby, I am a bi-sexual.  I have a dichotomy of physical and emotional needs which requires the presence of both sexes.”

As much as I appreciated your candor, I didn’t see the relevance of it seeing as you had kissed another man.


You asked me what I had done earlier in the day.

I responded:  “I went horseback riding with my friend Jack.  Jack isn’t the tallest fella’ around.  So I had to help my friend Jack off a horse.”

You didn’t laugh.  How the hell do you not laugh at that?


You told me James Joyce was unreadable.


You were quite straight-forward in telling me that Valentine’s Day was nothing more than “a commercial scam meant to exploit maudlin philistines.”  So of course, I did nothing special.

You were noticeably disappointed this day.


I didn’t tell you many things about myself.  The things I was sure to disclose were: 1. I don’t enjoy being around a large group of people.  2.  I don’t like to talk about writing.

On this day you decided to take me to an editor’s meeting of our University’s literary publication, Turbulence.  You said that you had told the other editors about me and that I would be an excellent addition.  Why you thought this is still beyond my understanding.

About an hour and a half into the dull and lingering meeting, the only things I had uttered were, “What?  Maybe…I don’t know.”

I could tell your peers were wondering who the aberration you had brought along was.  During the break you pulled me aside and you said:

“What the hell you doing?!”

“What do you mean?” I replied.

“Be smart!  Say intelligent things!  Like the other day when you were talking to me about Baudelaire.”

“You want me to talk to them about Baudelaire?” I asked.

“What are you retarded?!” you responded.


Were you drinking this day?

I came over after stopping by the barbershop and you told me that my haircut looked “heliocentric.”

What does that mean?


I realized you were a bit impressionable.  You saw one of those commercials that feature despondent and abandoned animals and you suggested we adopt one.  That’s fine, very emphatic of you.  But then later this day, while we were driving, you saw a billboard featuring some house for sale and you said, “That might be a good investment.”

You almost purchased property because of a billboard.


In one of my poems, I used the term “dresssnake.”  You informed me that I had forgotten to put a space between “dress” and “snake.”


You had at least been drinking too much.

Desultorily you asked, “Sandini, would you die for me?”

“What?” I said.  “That’s a bit–”

“Would you kill for me?”

“Good lord!  Why does your affection require death?”

For some reason which is beyond me, you sighed.


You said, and I quote precisely, “The Merry Wives of Windsor is Shakespeare’s best work.”



Today is the thirteenth of April and I can no longer bear to document any more crimes committed against my sanity.  I will leave this tortured diary by the whiskey, where you are sure to find it.  I don’t believe you will see me again.  If you are still perplexed by my disappearance, I am also leaving a copy of James Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake.  Please attempt to read it.  And once you can no longer go on, please realize that how you felt while reading the novel is how I’ve felt the entire time I have been with you.


S. Sandini


Defenestration-Sameer SaklaniSameer Saklani sat down the other day in an attempt to calculate whether writing had garnered him more money or more women.  He realized the answer was women; this meant that indirectly, writing had cost him more money than it had made him.  He can be contacted at ssaklani@mail.usf.edu.  Gentlemen, feel free to reimburse him for his loses.  Ladies, continue bankrupting him.


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