Dear Courtney,

You remind me of girls back in the treatment centers when I was growing up… an expanse of years stuttering between 1983 and 1989.

You remind me of Jodi H., who always ruined my photographs, gave me weed for the first time, let me finger bang her at a slumber party, then told everyone that I was queer and punched me out for looking at her in the sixth grade.

You remind me of Gina N., who loogied above me, threw eggs at my house and was the first girl to ever have me screaming “CUUUUUUNT” in the middle of the night, in the middle of Glebe Road in Arlington, Virginia, while she and her friends abandoned me from an oil-sputtering Honda. I was all of twelve.

You remind me, somewhat, of that one girl whose name I can’t remember who stole a carton and a case of beer out of a parked car in Tyson’s Corner’s parking lot, and went into the woods to pollute our lungs and get shitfaced until we fucked but never spoke of it again.

You remind me of Gypsy, my first real girlfriend, the reason why I came to Minnesota in the first place. She bitched me out for not being punk rock enough even though I argued with her and told her that being black was enough to get the unwanted attentions of my fellow man. She ended up finding out that she was part Oglala Sioux, got married, had a kid, and is now pursuing her doctorate somewhere in Massachusetts, with FUCK YOU still tattooed on the side of her head.

Courtney, you make me nervous. I’m supposed to hate you. I’m supposed to disagree with how you’re raising Frances Bean. I’m supposed to accuse you of killing Kurt, and hell, you might have, you wench, but not as obviously as O.J. killed Nicole.

You get shit the same way that Yoko Ono does. You get the Marianne Faithful trip. You get liposuction and you get arrested and you get nosejobs. You get bit parts in movies. You’re convinced you’re a goddamned rockstar. You’re convinced, because you have very purposefully become what you have become.

You are a Gorgon. You tried out to play Nancy Spungeon in Sid and Nancy, but Chloe Webb got it and you threw a fit because you are Nancy in more ways than one. You piss off Trent Reznor. You remind all my male friends of one of their psycho-exes, or at least someone who they’d fuck into a hole in the ground, but would never admit to doing so. Like that one chick. You know, her.

You remind me of how Sam must see me, now. No wonder I don’t talk to the poor boy anymore.

Agh. You make me nauseous. I shouldn’t know you this deeply. If we were to ever meet, Dear Courtney, I’d probably end up exactly where I used to be.

You remind me of what I was.

Love,
Glossolalia Black

p.s. Honey, please put some clothes on. And refrain from getting your asshole waxed in front of the media. Kthxbye.