Vintage Post #2 (Early 2008)

[For an assignment in the greatest class I took in college, “Dangerous Words.”  We were supposed to write a cover letter for an imaginary job application.  This is mine.]

Dear Sir/Madam:

I am applying for your job as “Mattress Tester” which was listed in the Oregonian and on Craigslist.  As I have been sleeping in beds every night for nearly 27 years, I feel I am well and uniquely qualified for this job.

My parents raised me in a home in which beds were the norm.  I have slept on many different mattresses, and feel that I can distinguish not only good ones from bad ones, but which ones may be good for children or the elderly, due to issues of size and accessibility.  I can also evaluate frames as to their stability, durability and dimensions.  I have experience with cots, futons and the most luxurious of mattresses, including memory-foam mattresses, and can tell almost immediately whether a bed is comfortable or not.

In my past experience evaluating mattresses, I have often even worked double-shifts so that my assessments are thorough and detailed.  My dedication to sleep and the accoutrements that accompany it has been commented on many times by parents, friends and housemates.  Please consider me most seriously for this position.

Thank you for your time and kind attention.


Kate Folsom

Vintage Post #1

This will never be forgotten. These are not just words.
Friday, May 30, 2008 at 4:13am

He didn’t come over tonight. It’s all right that he didn’t, I told him it was okay for him to stay home and get some sleep. The boy, he needs his sleep. He’d been drinking and wasn’t safe to drive yet. So I was magnanimous enough to let him sleep it off. Aren’t I a peach?

I have a picture of him that I want desperately to post here. But I don’t, for three reasons:

1. I believe he prefers anonymity
2. You won’t see what I see, so what’s the point?
3. My ex might hunt him down and kill him

But this picture gets me. Right in the gut. Or the heart. Or the pants. Or something.

I am not used to being helpless, of knowing so well that I only have two options: full speed ahead or jump ship. I can’t pull back on the throttle or whatever I’d have to do to slow this thing down and make my metaphor work. I’m fucked, essentially.

So, I have crushes. I have the option of other lovers. There are people for whom I have some interest in that capacity. I can kiss whomever I want. Whoo hoo. It makes for a lot of boring Friday nights. Many, many boring Friday nights. Usually he is here on Thursdays, but tonight I graciously allowed him to bow/pass out. I even fucking suggested it.

Which is essentially like a junkie saying, no honey, you shoot the last of the heroin.

I’m twitching and alone.

And all the other drugs just won’t do because all I want is him.

I took a bunch of photographs because I’m already getting ready for the time when he won’t be around anymore, when these pictures and a few saved IM conversations are all I’ll have to remember him by. I’m already stockpiling evidence of his existence for when he’s gone. So I’ll know. So I can remember.

There was a really bad night back in… March? I think it was March. I was really fucked-up because The Ex had come over unannounced and thrown my brain out of whack. I drove over to CGB’s. I wanted so desperately to be held, but I was afraid to ask for it. I needed to cry, but I didn’t want him to see me lose it. He made me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on wheat bread, and we watched “Hudson Hawk.”

Grape jelly. And a beer. And… a stupid movie that I hardly even remember. I want to keep that memory close to my heart for the cold times, the dark times, the lonely nights. He made me a sandwich. I even ate the crusts. I drank the beer, although I don’t like beer.

They say the only way to be ok with death is to really embrace it, to live your life to the fullest knowing it can end at any time. And maybe the only way to love somebody is to know that they could fall away at any time, that this too shall pass. So I’m already treating him like a memory. Because I don’t know what else to do.