I have decided to write and mail letters from dead people to my friends. They are not aware that I have decided to embark upon this mischievous quest. Unfortunately, they'll figure it out rather quickly. Hopefully they'll join in and suggest new victims.

In some cases, the dead people will be deceased rock stars. In some cases, historical figures. In others, random folks I find on the obituary page. My former roomie is a big Nirvana fan, so he gets the first one. I have a book of really pleasant floral stamps I'm using to mail these.

Return Address:
Kurt Cobain
Heaven

Addressee:
Patrick *******
**** * ******* *** *** **
Chicago, IL *****

Dear Patrick,

Hey. It's me. Kurt. I'm sitting here in heaven strumming a Danelectro Hodad guitar. It's a weird one. When Krist and I used to get drunk, I'd play his drums while he played this. We sounded awful. It was great. Anyways, I'm just dead and relaxing. Retirement is very pleasant. No sales numbers, tour squabbles, or video shoots. Still, heaven isn't quite what I expected. Instead of fluffy clouds and angels with halos, it's more like a long street full of coffeeshops. People huddle in dim cozy rooms with torn furniture, rocking chairs, and old pianos. They play checkers, listen to music, and recite mediocre poetry. It's a lot like Seattle, except it never rains.

I miss being alive. A little. But mostly not. The thing I like best is there's no pressure here. People are just "Hey Kurt" instead of "Kurt, Floyd The Barber changed my life" or "Negative Creep is me exactly!" or "Kurt, I'm gonna be just like you one day!" So it's a lot smoother here in heaven. I guess.

The reason I'm writing is a little complicated. You see, we can watch living people from up here. You're all on our televisions. If we want. Not only can I snoop in on your life, but I can watch what you see, too. I know it's gonna sound weird, but I like hanging out in your front room. I like all the plants, cats, and sunlight. It reminds me of my grandmother's house, but in a good way.

Even though I'm dead, I still sit around all lethargic and mopey. I guess it's just my personality. Kind of like you, except you're social and cheerful. I guess not like you at all really. Anyhow. The point I was gonna make was that I like watching horror movies with you. Even the bad ones. Sitting there smoking a pipe and sinking into your couch is nice and sleepy.

I'll tell you a secret. When I'm watching them with you, sometimes I pretend I'm the guy with the chainsaw, and the dumb kid getting chased is Courtney. You know? I wanted to bring her with me. A shotgun has two barrels you know. But I had to leave somebody to take care of Frances Bean, and that coked up whore I married was the only one to do it. She is the mother, so I guess I made an okay choice. Maybe. We'll see.

I never watch Courtney from up here. I hate that cunt. But my dear Frances I love so much. I wish I could say hello to her, but they've got pretty strict rules up here, believe it or not. No haunting family.

Most of the time I just haunt strangers. I don't do any of that spooky bullshit like making your air cold or rattling your windows. I just hang out, watch movies, and pretend I'm stoned on heroin. I never really wanted to be famous. Hanging out in your joint makes me feel kinda regular. Like a normal guy. Which I like.

So thanks man. Have a great life. I'll be around. You just won't know it. But I will be.

Keep rockin, fuckin, and screamin.

Your friend,

11:58 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm