A well check on Jolie Pilat
Jolie,
Are you ok?
I don't know you except through the bizarre packages that arrive on my doorstep. Packages addressed to you, care of my domicile, are arriving more frequently. I’d like to forward these packages to you, but I can’t for two reasons:
You don’t live here.
You don’t seem to know where you live either.
I would return them to the sender and lean on them to help, but that person also needs clarification on where they live and/or help writing it down correctly.
My husband and I know the second bit because we've repeatedly tried to send these packages back to you. But like a bad penny, they just come back.
So we open them.
I repeat. Are you ok, Jolie?
What have they done to you, Jolie?
In what world are you sourcing multiple all-in-one combat knife, tiny combination metal staff thingies with attachments that you also use to garden?
You didn't just order this once—you ordered it twice—unless it was a BOGO. Perhaps you have twin grandbabies who are into militia gardening or are ambidextrous?
All I know is that when my husband tried to use the Google machine to figure out what the mysterious black tubes with random accoutrements were, it fucked up his search algorithms permanently. The internet now thinks he's an emergent Trumper, which can only lead to him ranting incoherently and trying to sell me bibles with his face on them. This could be because he eventually turns Trumper or because he hates Trumpers. I pray that I continue to know which one he is.
Was that part of your strategy, Jolie? If that's even your real name?
Because my husband has also tried to find you, even though I tell him that we probably shouldn't embolden and arm nascent militia gardeners, his do-gooder nature compels him. He’s knocked on goddamned doors in the neighborhood looking for you, Jolie.
Perhaps I should be glad that he didn’t find you. You’re probably getting touchy waiting for your deadly garden tools. I’m lucky that I haven’t had to post an obituary to his Facebook account detailing how he died trying to return shovel nunchucks to a Trumper.
But since other neighbors frequently forget their addresses and send us large items like furniture, he's become rather skilled at tracking people down. It’s either that or he starts liking “cottage core” and puts end tables that we didn’t order next to end tables that we did order.
But he couldn’t find you, Jolie. Or whoever is supporting your violent and toothless lifestyle.
Correction: Formerly toothless or differently toothed, as some fake teeth packaged in little clear baggies with seed beads seem to indicate. Gentle reader, I don’t just jump to conclusions. The fake teeth with seed beads showed up yesterday.
This may be why you're not on the socials either. I remember the day months ago when my husband huffed with annoyance that "you weren't even on LinkedIn."
It makes sense now. How could you take your new headshots without these two pairs of comically unrealistic-looking teeth?
I'm worried.
So, if you see this, Jolie Pilat, who does not live at my address, please contact Judy Spero, who might live in Ronkonkoma, New York. Please ask her to send us a message. She'll know where to find us, even if she doesn't know where to find you or even herself.
