Dear Rupert Brooke,

On Mondays, we write letters to people who should date us. We call this "Letters to People Who Should Date Us Monday," because when we made up the name, it was a Monday, and it was early, and we were all tired. So sue us.


[photo courtesy world war pictures]

Dear Rupert Brooke,
I remember the first time I laid eyes on you, in Mr. Backes' class. Tanya and I were instantly smitten, and we ripped out the page of the English anthology that bore your picture in an act of rebellion. We were just being silly high-school girls who thought you were, as Yeats said, "the handsomest young man in England." Plus, you died when you were only 27, like Kurt Cobain and Janis Joplin, which meant you were hot FOREVER. (That you died of a mosquito bite is not very rock-star, but you were so hot that we'll forgive it.)

But Rupert - your poems are actually kind of good. The titles definitely are. Check these titles out:

• On the Death of Smet-Smet, the Hippopotamus-Goddess
• Thoughts on the Shape of the Human Body
• He Wonders Whether to Praise or to Blame Her
• Sonnet (Suggested by some of the Proceedings of the Society for Psychical Research)
  

And this poem? MAJOR BURN. That last line slays me.

If there is ever a zombie apocalypse, I'm going to find you and make a zombie out of you so I can be your zombie girlfriend. That's love, Rupert. That's love.

Brains,
Anna