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thanks.”
    After a few months, I realized that I needed a second bookshelf. My collection was growing rapidly. Whenever I talked to my mother, she wanted to talk about my fear of commitment. She was worried, she said, that I had been acting differently since my brother’s death. She said I was always running from women who were perfect for me.
    But romance was Adrian’s thing. There won’t be twenty sobbing girls at my funeral, none of them looking at one another, each clutching a handkerchief.
    â€œWell, what was wrong with that pretty girl with the punk rock hair?” my mother said. “She seemed nice enough.”
    â€œShe owned every single Tom Clancy novel,” I said. “But love doesn’t last forever.”
    Yours,
    Joey Comeau

    Dear Airwalk,
    Sometimes it feels good to fall off your skateboard. It hurts like a fucker, and your body aches and you can’t stop smiling.
    Sometimes it feels good to go out and skate and climb and run until you’re exhausted, miles away from home. You didn’t plan on ending up somewhere so far away. You just did what your body wanted.
    I’ve started to take disasters as good omens, like the death card in tarot decks. I’ve started to read the newspaper like people read chicken bones. Somewhere in that mess, you can tell the future. Where did they find her body? On the second floor? Don’t invest in any new business opportunities this week. A bomb went off in the subway north of the main line, not south. That’s a good sign. The death count was an odd number. Now is the time for a new love in your life.
    I want a piece of everything today. Do you get like this? I feel sure that every stranger would be the perfect surprise in bed. Out of nowhere they would spit in my face, would mention Patricia Highsmith. They would smile at the exact wrong moment and that moment would be all I remembered. I’ve been meeting people’s eyes on the street. I’ve been writing pornography to be read out loud. I want to wear a sign all the time around my neck that says, “Yes.”
    Yours,
    Joey Comeau

    Dear Greenpeace,
    I have been thinking about sex. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. It’s almost September, and soon fall will be here. I don’t know what you’re doing today, but maybe you would rather be thinking about sex, too. This morning I woke up and remembered an embarrassing sex story. Everyone has embarrassing sex stories, I hope.
    My girlfriend Susan and I were in bed together, masturbating. We had just met. Everything was exciting and terrible. She was on her back, naked, touching herself, and I was above her, mostly naked, doing the same. I was eighteen or nineteen years old, and all I could think about was coming on her breasts. You know, like on the Internet. I think, probably, I was saying something to that effect. I wasn’t mentioning the Internet, of course, but I was saying, “I’m going to come on you. I’m going to come on you.”
    I’m classy like that.
    I don’t remember how she felt about the whole coming-on-her idea, actually, but I can tell you that I was very excited about it. I was almost lying on top of her. I was leaned forward so far. So when I felt my orgasm coming, I looked down between us to watch for the come shot.
    I came in my own eye. It was like a 3D movie gone terribly wrong, and it stung. I started clawing at my face. Susan laughed and laughed while I tried frantically to wipe my eyeclean. She was curled up naked on the bed, laughing so hard there were tears. I started laughing too. I couldn’t help it. We both laughed until it hurt, until the muscles in our cheeks were sore from smiling, and then we looked up at her ceiling, on our backs, exhausted. For the rest of that afternoon, every once in a while one of us would start laughing again and then so would the other.
    I thought about that after we fought tonight. I get so