You Never Read This, Because I Never Wrote It

Dear Internet,

You are often used as an anonymous land where people show their true selves. We can’t be ourselves in the real world, because the real world is full of judgment and police. You are a platform to put aside the airs we give society, and to let out the waistband of shamefulness on our sweatpants of scorn. For example, many commenters at Youtube reveal that they are functionally illiterate, while still many others reveal that they are racist crapweasels. Some anonymous commenters go the extra mile and reveal that they are functionally illiterate racist crapweasels who deserve a very public beating.

 Pictured: Youtube comments section

But not me. I choose to use you, the internet, to reveal what I secretly want for my birthday. However, I will also accept these presents on other holidays, such as Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Arbor Day, Flag Day, and garbage day.

The same rules that apply to Youtube commenters apply to this blog, though. If you saw a Youtube commenter out on the street and mentioned, “Hey, I saw that comment you posted on my video with the cute kittens pawing at yarn. I disagree that Obama is actually an evil Marxist robot, and I question the authenticity of the lascivious claims you’ve leveled against my mother,” the commenter will immediately deny he ever said these things. “Sir, I am an upstanding citizen! I’m a third grade teacher who volunteers at the animal shelter; I would never slander someone like that!”

If you see me out in the world and mention this blog post to me, I will start acting bewildered and make my way to incredulous. If that doesn’t work, I will hurl deflective insults at you. If that still doesn’t work, I will throw a chair through the nearest window and run away holding my ears and yelling, “LALALA I CAN’T HEAAAR YOUUUU!” I don’t have a plan for after that, because that option has never not worked. The best way to give me these presents would be to break into my apartment while I’m not there and leave them on my bed. The less interaction the better, because:

I want a Pillow Pet.

But, it’s normal for a grown man to want one of these, right? RIGHT?...Of course it isn’t, Internet. That’s why you’ve got to keep this secret for me. But seriously look at this thing and tell me you don’t want to take a nap on it knowing that every dream you have will take place in Candyland, and that you’ll be hanging out with the Care Bears.

This turtle whispers words of encouragement in your ear as you sleep

Now look at how stupid and ugly your regular pillow is, with its stupid, ugly rectangular shape and ugly, stupid striped pillowcase. The thing doesn’t even have a smile on it. It doesn’t love you!

70% cotton, 100% love and giggles

I’ve thought about buying one for myself, but then I thought about how awkward checking out at Wal-Mart would be.

Me: “THIS IS FOR MY SISTER!”

Cashier: “Um, that’s nice, sir. Would you li-“

Me: “SHE’S SEVEN!”

Cashier: “Sir, you really don’t have to yell. You are scaring the cust-“

Me: “LADYBUGS!”

Cashier: “I’m sorry, sir. Ladybugs? What does that have to do with anyth-“

Me: “SHE LOVES LADYBUGS! MY SISTER! THE ONE THAT THIS PILLOW PET IS FOR!”

“SHE ALSO LOVES GIRAFFES AND PLATYPUSES! SHUT UP AND CHECK ME OUT!”

Cashier: “That’s wonderful, sir, but I’m going to have to ask you to stop yelling. There are other people in line.”

Me: “I’M SORRY IT’S JUST THAT I GET NERVOUS BUYING SOMETHING AS RIDICULOUS AS THIS FOR MYSE-“

*Our eyes meet. Wal-mart falls silent*

Me (quietly):……”sister. I meant ‘for my sister.’”

*I break down crying as security guards take me away*

And even if I did buy myself a Pillow Pet without having to register my address with the state, I’d have to hide it when guests come over. Which begs the question, “How many Pillow Pets do I actually own that people don’t know about yet?”

You’d be surprised at how many of these you can fit into a crawlspace

So now you see why I can only talk about this anonymously. Thanks for listening, Internet. You're always there for me.

Anonymously yours,

Nathan