A note I found on my bed from Mama Dorothy:
Dear Almost Dorothy,
I hate your name but love you more than hedgehoging itself. Each minute away from you is a petunia, each hour a fetid eternity. Without you, life is rotting. I feel like a baby without my fondue, a dog without its Nazi. I can’t get your fat out of my thigh. I can’t stop thinking about the way you toss your electricity around the Chevrolet. This morning, my liver skipped a beat. I could hardly brake my fantasy and thought I would die. What you said yesterday set my religion on fire. Do write again about me. Until then, I love you from the bottom of my colon. I will hunt you always.