Love Letters

Voyeurella, not surprisingly, is a voyeuristic blog. Not in the aggressive way that the paparazzi hide in bushes for hours on end hoping to get a money shot of the newest celebrity Baby Mama. More in the creepy way we love to peer into windows at night as we’re walking to our cars or strolling back from dinner at a neighborhood restaurant. Voyeurella does not try to quash this fascination. Voyeurella understands that it is human nature to marvel at every mundane move made by unknowing occupants in warmly lit dwellings. We’re like moths to a fire, aren’t we, when we see an illuminated house and dark shadows stirring within, doing nothing more than pouring a drink (in my house, nightcap = ginger tea), sifting through the mail (bill, credit-card application, catalog, bill, bill = mostly paper-shredder feed) or chatting on the phone (“Oh no he di’int!” = music to my ears). So here, in this blog, you will find ordinary things to peer at, volunteered by ordinary people. And hopefully what will come of it is the understanding that life happens everyday, thereby rejecting the popular notions, “get a life” or “I have no life.” You do, and it is inherently interesting.

As a sign of good faith, today I offer a recent love letter from my boyfriend Mark. We have been together nearly five years. We live together in a small one-bedroom in San Francisco’s Western Addition neighborhood. The last time Mark bought me flowers—a bouquet so big it barely made it through the door—was nearly five years ago, at the height of the courting stage. The last time he told me he loved me was five seconds ago. The last time he wrote me a love letter, five days ago. He attached it to a new electric broom that needed a 24-hour charge before use. It’s not a traditional expression of love—I balk at nauseating demonstrations—but romantic nonetheless. In my eyes, anyway. (BTW, GRGS = Gorgeous, his term of endearment for me.)