I have a problem, and I was hoping that between you and your illustrious felines, you might help me see my way through it. My problem is this: I’ve been with Bear for almost two years, and have lived with him for almost all of that. I’ve known his best friend Bowser for almost as long. Bowser and I have been friends for a while, but in the last three months (he recently returned from Purgatory — the ARMY!) there has been a lot of chemistry between us. Good chemistry.

Well, now that I’ve bored you to death with personal history, do you have any comments? I guess I know the answer, to move out, break things off gently with Bear, and maybe try something with Bowser, depending on whether or not I can get my courage up. Still, someone else’s take on this who isn’t involved is always welcome, as is knowing someone agrees with me.

Best wishes to your masters,
Silly Kitty in Texas

I’m writing you (a woman who I admire and deeply envy) this letter in hopes that you can help me solve what may seem like a trivial problem to some, but is quite a difficult one for me. I’ve asked so many friends and even my parents (yeah, still in high school, so sue me) but I’d much prefer a witty, well thought-out response from an outside party.

I’ve had a friend, who is also a next-door neighbor, since I was about four years old. All of the ordinary growing-up, guy-girl, cool-not stuff that happens on every teen drama has happened. For the most part. He’d tease me, pull my pigtails, get suckered into playing Barbies, sucker me into playing Ninja Turtles, et cetera. We had so much fun up until about the age of twelve.

Insert Jaws panic music. He became way too cool and way too popular to hang out with a tomboy smartie like myself. I was hurt and more often than not masked my pain with bitchery. And I was good at it. I convinced everyone, including him, that I hated him and that I was glad our friendship was dead and buried. Of course, in reality, I harbored a giant crush on him. He really is cute, after all.

Eighth grade came, and he found out I’d be attending a different high school. (I’m a Jersey girl and public school sucks the big one.) Numerous lesbian jokes were made at my soon-to-be-all-girls’-Catholic-ass. I brushed them off with “you betcha”s and “The uniforms will be really sexy”s. Just to piss him off. It worked. He felt like I was being a bitch without reason and called me on it. In public. Usually during art class. I of the snappy comebacks always scored a few hissed “diss!”es aimed at his unoriginal self. Then, being the weenie he was, he took to harassing me online, demanding to know why I wasn’t his friend anymore.

I had to ask, “Do you have a few years?” I brought up “flatty,” “Chewbacca,” and “loser.” He called it joking; I called it mean and unnecessary, especially when you call someone a friend. We resolved it. Or rather, I pretended we could be friends and haven’t spoken to him until this year (my sophomore year in high school).

Now his behavior is downright inappropriate. He asks me about my boyfriends, how far I’ve gone, will I come drink and smoke pot with him…I tell him there is absolutely nothing in the relationship for me. He disagrees. Thank you AOL for the blocking feature. But somewhere in the back of my mind I feel like I at least owe him a face-to-face conversation so we can get down to why he really wants to be my friend so badly.

Am I completely wasting my time? Am I choosing to put faith in past make-believe games and days where we spent the whole day just talking?

Sincerely,
The Bitch Formerly Known as K

Is there any way to tell the fuckos in my life to stop asking me overly personal questions? Before I got married, people were always asking me when I was going to get married. And these weren’t good friends of mine that got bold after two bottles of cheap red wine. These were random aquaintances. I usually made some joke like, “Oh, we’re waiting for my divorce,” “We want to get married in California and we’re waiting for the parole to end so he can cross state lines,” or “What’s the point? I’m not pregnant.” They usually laughed and said something stupid like “No. Really?” To which I usually had to get another drink or pathetically attempt again change the conversation.

That was four years ago. I’ve now been married nearly three years, and the same random fuckos think it’s perfectly okay to ask me when I’m having children. I try to answer with something witty like “Apparently, it’s illegal to sell them on the black market so I don’t really see the point,” or “Why have a child when I’m already married to one?” And again, they keep pressing. Unfortunately, the right answer is probably never, due to medical concerns that I sure as hell don’t feel comfortable talking to them about. Is there any way to gracefully tell them to fuck off?

Yours,
Sick of Personal Questions