September 22, 2026: My friend Davey is interviewing me, over email, about my fan letters - the perfect kick in the ass, to avoid being someone talking about an expired practice, after nearly a goddamn year I am officially sending this sort of mail again. I experienced ecstasy meeting Megan Jasper at a beloved's wedding this weekend - she sat down alone behind me as I was talking to someone about the great treat of having friends you share an ex with (I really befriended Carmen, this weekend's bride, when she called out my shitty behavior, fueled by jealousy around her dating someone I'd dated prior, and proceeded to date again). My conversation partner was unfamiliar with it, so I thought to ask an elder, and tapped a stranger back's, who responded, eagerly, to, "Do you have any friends you have an ex in common with?" with "Wow, what a GREAT question," going on to engage with me around how receptionist is, in many ways, the most powerful position at any company. It seems like everyone but me knows that Megan's the CEO of Sub Pop, where she began as an intern. She shook my hand warmly when she had to leave that party, the first official wedding event; I embraced her outside the church the next day but failed to connect further. Bless things like labels, with obvious offices - I'm sending her a letter extolling her abilities as a prankster (she made up grunge lingo to punk the New York Times!), proof she's a prime role model for me. The truth is that since Mary died - and I've been in an acute spell of missing Mary - I've yearned for a mentor, and I had not yet felt the thrill of thinking I might have met one. It was so exciting I lost sleep, the way I sometimes do after a particularly thrilling kiss. I'm not sure it qualifies as fan mail if you ask for anything - I want people to be able to drink in demand-less appreciation. And I think it's alright to put on this little record that I fervently hope she chooses to keep me around.