Dear Binda,

You used to be a Baptist, right?  Or was it Catholic? I’m asking because you sent an oddly religious birthday card to me. Come to think of it, the cake you sent was oddly religious too. Or was that Eddie Vedder’s likeness on the cake. By the way: great cake. You know how much I like pineapple. You always remember the little things.

I’d like to say that I spent my birthday with friends and family. But instead I spent it with you, on Youtube. I was looking back at some of the vlogs you did, when you used to take viewers on shopping sprees or we could all just watch you cook and eat. Those were the good old days. I call it B.B. “Before Brian.”

Please thank him for my gift too. His was oddly not religious. It was a book about the discovery of DNA. I like how people discover things. He’s good at knowing me too.

Thank you both!

Dear Binda,

I had the dream again. The one where I’m traveling with Destiny’s Child, all four of us trying to catch a train. I’m in charge of the tickets. But can’t find them. As you know the dream usually ends with me being fired.

But guess what happened. I found the tickets this time! They were in my backpack. Right there, under my nose. Only you could appreciate this latest victory. That is why you are my best friend, Binda.

Sorry Binda,

I don’t hate being judged. I just hate telling the truth. As soon as the words come out of your mouth, the recipient of those words takes them and chews them and inevitably spits them out. Regurgitation is what I hate.

Telling the truth is just an added layer of fat-free whipped topping to an othewise untasty cupcake, and then burping all that shit back up.

I even tried dump cakes. Even two-ingredient cakes. One with nutella. Cheap sweets.

It still tastes awful coming back out. It’s tinged. With someone else’s perspective.

Binda,

Was so happy to find out you are coming for a visit this fall. I’m so looking forward to it. Look, I know everyone will want a piece of you so I’m hereby putting in my reservation to at least see you–and the kids (the kids and Brian are coming, right?) for at least two hours.

Nothing special. Just dinner and catching up. I promise to hug you tightly without sticking my hips out as if afraid to hip with your hip. I will hug you will all of me. What’s left, that is.

Dear Binda,

It just occurred to me that everyone one of us has moved back to Austin. I’m the only one of us that’s not there. Austin was the first place I’d ever heard of fish tacos. And Wholefoods and the concept of byob. It was the place I had my first kiss.

New York is bigger and better. Fish tacos are served in waffle cones here, drenched in Millenial sauce. Byob is no longer needed because everything is delivered, thus no bringing involved. I’ve kissed so many lips in all five boroughs.

So, dear Binda, won’t you come back?

I get that feeling sometimes that I want to stir shit up. I used to be so good at it, when I was little but the consequences were less dire. I’d get sent to bed early or in my later teenage years got grounded. Dad took back the car keys.

Stirring up trouble now is more like this: have an extramarital affair, try an opoid, stick my finger down my throat on those Friday night Pepperidge Farm binges. I need a smaller stirrer.

So lately I’ve just gotten into the habit of reading a New York Times articles, finding out the author’s contact information and writing them, to thank them for their thoughtful piece. I could rant at them, troll them. But that isn’t the stirring does anyone any good.

Maybe I should bake up a storm. There’s more process, more ingredients to focus on. And there is literally a stirring there.

I regret cutting them. They held me up. They cost nothing–or at least nothing I could readily see. Oh, sure, people always warn about the dangers them knotting around your neck, slowly, in time. The major cause of death, they say. But there are pills you can take, I’ve heard that makes you less aware of your new freedom. Although they have side effects like constipation, blurred vision and nostalgic foragings for anything from Velveeta to old episodes of Police Woman.  So what to do with the actual strings–for they are hardly ever biodegradable. Depending on your genetics, the average number of strings is five. There are gig industries that have cropped recently up about how to repurprose them. Too many to name here.

I personally like to use mine to wrap presents with. My strips happened to be wide, colorful and tapered–a rare gene, I’m told. But I always ask for the strings back, after the presents are opened. Just in case I need them.

Dear Binda,

Remember that pencil sharpener you bought me for back on my 21st birthday? I still have it! I found it underneath some old photos, in a box from labeled “Stuff,” of all things.

And it guess what? It works. The irony is that I have no writing pencils. Remember when I went through that eye makeup phase? Well the only reason I’d stopped wearing eye makeup is because the guy-liner pencil dulled. At one time I tried using a knife to sharpen it but I kept losing how chunks of the stuff that way. I gave up. But now I have your pencil sharpener. Thanks to you,  my eyes are lined. My eyes pop.

Here’s the thing: no one noticed. Not even close colleagues at work. I finally had to show my boyfriend and even he didn’t notice. But clearly there’s a difference. I mean, you guys used to make fun of me wearing it back then. Why not now?

Is eye-liner just dull no matter how sharp the pencil?

Dear Binda,

I love fall. I love any change in season. Even pizza tastes better in the fall. Kisses are sweeter. I’m thinner (in my head). This season is like the slices of onions that are a bit too encroaching on an otherwise perfect pizza. Yes, this season has it’s imperfections. But that’s okay. The weather makes it possible to walk those problems into a smoother stance and to help the smell of dead leaves makes me think that solutions are in the air.

Impossible to find. But you know when you’ve pressed it. And they are everywhere. They actually line coats and jackets. One of my favorite Binda buttons is the one that is right under my nose. Whenever I realize it’s there, I don’t press it but just offer my appreciation. It’s more of a compass really. A chance to see in the flesh what I’ve heard so much about.