An Open Letter to Kylie Cinnamon Snow

An Open Letter to Kylie Cinnamon Snow

Dear Kylie,

I’ve only known of you a month but I feel like we’ve been through so much together. That said, I feel like our relationship is one-sided. That’s unfair. I’ve tried to reach out to you. I’ve tried to befriend your friends. They’ve rebuffed me. What else can I do?

Ever since I found your lavender BlackBerry in the back of a cab I was excited about the prospects of our relationship. En route to Steve Marsh’s house and eager to impress him and his clan of moderately famous musicians and gorgeous, exotic-in-that-vaguely-foreign-way brunettes, I looked down at the seat and saw it, thinking, “Thank you universe.” This would be my ticket to instant popularity.

But my hopes were quickly dashed. I went through your text messages, nothing. Not a single sext, not a single salacious argument, no embarrassing personal details. God damn it, Kylie. I should’ve known how this would turn out; you’ve disappointed me from the start.

Once your shiny purple BlackBerry lost its utility, I switched immediately into helpful stranger mode. You know, Minnesota nice. I called the two most recent contacts in your call log. Some bro named “Cor” and someone else with a real dudeish sounding abbreviated name, I think maybe “Stu” or something like that. Both of them yelled at me, their words garbled by the sound of loud club beats and screaming drunk chicks. “You’re not Kylie!!!” accused a seemingly delirious and confused Cor. Of course not, I’m just trying to find her. This phrase would come to epitomize our whole relationship. I’m just trying to find you.

I brought your phone home. Stu or whatever called me fifteen times, apparently wise to your situation by then, but your phone was on silent so I didn’t notice ‘til the next morning and by that time your phone had automatically locked itself and I was powerless to do anything. Why did you go out with your phone on silent, Kylie? Are you polite? Were you on a date? Did you simply forget? If only it was left on vibrate we could have been reunited by now.

Your phone died. It died, Kylie, like my hopes of ever meeting you. I have a BlackBerry charger which I realized maybe three days later, but what would have been the point? I’m sure you’d forgotten about me and VioletBerry by then.

I Googled your number (because I had the foresight to call myself from your phone since, you know, I’m not an idiot). I learned your name is Kylie Cinnamon Snow. Like the poor man’s Hannah Silk Champagne, I thought. I learned you went to the U of M and spent time studying in the Netherlands. I Facebooked you. You never responded. You fucking bitch, you never responded. All I wanted to do was return your phone and you can’t even give me a moment of your day to respond.

I’m sorry I turned you into a meme, Kylie. I’m sorry that if you Google your full name, the first page of results is populated not with your LinkedIn page, not with news of your success (I learned, by navigating a few pages back, that you received a scholarship to the University of Nebraska-Lincoln! Congrats!) but with links to my friends Pat O’Brien and Jay Gabler making fun of your name on Twitter. They weren’t the only ones either, Kylie. I’m sorry. (Ironically enough, I discovered your name through a public Facebook event you responded to with your phone number entitled “Got a New Phone.” You should think more carefully about internet security and your private information. I’m just looking out for you. I care.)

I’m sorry I yelled at you, Kylie. I don’t hate you. You’re not a bitch. I’m just trying to find you. Your purple BlackBerry sits forlornly on my coffee table to this day, and I just don’t have the heart to throw it away, or sell it on Craiglist like some of my more amoral friends have suggested. Which is why I am writing you this letter; please, Kylie, reach out. If you know Kylie Cinnamon Snow, please tell her to write me back, or give her my number; anything.

I need you in my life, Kylie, if only for a moment.

Sarah Heuer would also like to request that whichever vaguely ethnic brunette stole Steve’s olive canvas book tote with leather handles that night please return it before he has to write an open letter of his own.