Thursday, November 17

Loveletters from Harriet to George

From The Newyorker: NEW NOTES FROM HARRIET TO GEORGE
Issue of 2005-11-14
Posted 2005-11-07

October 27, 2005
Hi! Just a quick note to say that you looked heavyish last time I saw you, which, come to think of it, was this morning, in the Oval Office, when you accepted my withdrawal (which you had secretly demanded) and ruined my life and dreams and spirit. I hope we can stay friends. And, again, I am sorry for vomiting on your desk. Best to your wife (Laurel??).

Harriet Miers, NOT a Supreme Court nominee

October 27, later on
It dawns on me that I may not have mentioned that you ruined my life. Or did I? Also, do you ever wonder where you’d be if it wasn’t for your father, who, when you think about it, was a really amazing person, who did SOOO much in his life, especially compared with you who have done so little? I read that you were a cheerleader once. Girls do that a lot. Eucalyptus is good for absorbing bad smells (like human vomit). That was a lot of vomit. But then I had a tough few weeks, in which I was humiliated in the national media, and you and your staff (some of whom may be indicted soon??) were not one scintilla of help. Friends forever!

October 27, quite late
Pinot Noirs are nice. This second bottle tastes better than the first, actually. Sometimes I pretend I’m the lead singer of the O’Jays (“People all over the world, join in, start a love train, love train”). Do you think I’m pretty? Once, I staged a mock wedding to you in my home, alone, except for Mr. Pickles, my cat. It was very, very late, like it is now, and I dressed in a fluffy white robe and walked slowly down the pretend aisle and said “I do” and closed my eyes and smooched your skinny, chapped lips because you were, to me, so perfect. I would like to file imaginary divorce proceedings against you now and withhold connubial favors. Let’s see what THAT does for that eye tic. Friends?

Your ex-wife, Harriet Miers

October 28, late
What do I mean by emotional break-down? I guess I mean that the edges of everything seem to be rounded and sound disappears if I look at a thing too long. What is dignity? The phrase “Pass the brownies, please” plays over and over in my head. I was happy once, just a few weeks ago.

I have no idea of the time or date or where I am.

It’s not really a bench, is it? I mean, there are chairs. You said it was going to be like Roberts. Why lie? Want to know a secret? I don’t believe in God.

<>

October 28, the clock moves, as if on its own
I just spoke with Michael Moore. What an inquisitive, interesting man. He said that many of the things I shared with him about being White House counsel were very, very interesting to him. We made plans to meet for coffee soon, so that I can show him some papers. Do you know what phrase has less and less meaning for me with each passing second? “Attorney-client privilege.”


October 29
I have a question: Is Lewis Libby married? Because, if he’s not, he will be, in jail. Bye for now, friend!


— John Kenney

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