Thursday, May 6, 2010

Herman Melville | Moby-Dick | 1851

Dear Captain Ahab,

Hi. My name is Lucy. I am nineteen years old and I live in Milford, Connecticut. I had to read the book about you in high school last year, and as a result I have generally positive feelings about you. I admire your drive and your commitment, and I even think that you are the kind of man I might be interested in romantically. Boys my age can be so immature. When I talked about this with my friends, they wrinkled up their noses, and not in the good way. My closest friend, Kelly, said "Do you think you could be with a guy with one leg?" I said something about sure and how it would be kind of an honor to help you walk around and get into and out of the car. "No," she said. "That's not what I mean. I mean do it with a guy with one leg. Ew." Then she left to go to work: she is a waitress at a place near the water that has really great clam chowder that you, being a sailor, would probably like. I didn't think much of her comment until last night, when I was in bed, letting my mind wander. And then the saddest thing happened. I started to agree with Kelly. I mean, I still think it's sexy and everything, like a tattoo, but what if you were in bed with me, and I rolled over, and I saw the stump? In the immortal words of Kelly, ew.

Lucy Powell