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  • Writer's pictureDana Starr

It's Been a Minute Since I've Updated This Blog. My Bad.

Anyhoo, I had a dream a few nights back that I was a young, rich, thin woman who owned her own shop in a barn. That was the good news. The bad news was that the shop was losing money. A lot of money. It was a very realistic dream and when I woke, I got busy writing a direct marketing letter to send to customers in an effort to increase traffic flow. You can read the letter below. I'd written the entire thing before it occurred to me that I'm not young, rich, or thin and I certainly don't own my own shop in a barn. I've shopped in a barn just like the barn in the letter. It's no longer in business but it inspired my dream and this letter:

An Open Letter to All You Ungrateful Hicks Who Don't Realize How Lucky You Are

Dear Consumers:

I’m losing money faster than piss leaks out of an upturned boot. No matter. There’s always more—money and piss. Do I regret sinking a million bucks into my latest venture? Nope. Do I regret that one lick I took off a Krispy Kreme donut three months ago? Yep.

I may have gained an ounce, but I’ll be damned if I lose my dream. I’ve always wanted to own my very own busted-up barn located in the middle of nowhere. I made it happen, but you’re not doing your part. I’m going to need you to step it up and shop in my busted-up barn. It doesn’t take that much of an effort on your part. You’ll just need to dodge the cactus, cow pies, and chiggers the size of your big toe to get in the front door.

Also, don't you dare park out front if you aren't driving one of the following vehicles, preferably in white, off-white, cream, ecru, bone, ivory, or porcelain: Range Rover, BMW, Mercedes, Audi, or Porsche. If you are driving your daddy's daddy's dad's vintage Ford truck that has been locked up in your family's very own busted-up barn for close to a century, then I might let you park out front. It depends on how much rust is displayed. And, it better be artfully displayed, or you will be the recipient of some serious side-eye from yours truly. If you're driving an old Chevy truck, then just turn your ass around and head on back to town.

Once inside, you’ll find young shirtless hipster dudes with big, bushy beards (but no chest hair) walking around my busted-up barn wielding chains. They flex their non-existent muscles by just beating the hell out of everything in sight because I need my barn to be really, really busted-up. I mean the more busted-up the better. I ain't talking about kind of busted-up; I'm talking about artfully busted-the-F-up by Beckett, and Dax, and Holden, and Kai, and Sullivan. It enhances the shopping experience. Trust me on this.

Beckett, and Dax, and Holden, and Kai, and Sullivan have moved in massive farmhouse tables adorned with knotholes and splinters galore but no food because seriously? The tables look awesome with all the rickety-ass chairs I’ve bought. I have a ton of rickety-ass chairs, but no one better sit on any of my rickety-ass chairs. You can stand there all day and admire my rickety-ass chairs, but God help you if you sit on one. You are strongly encouraged to stand when you enter my busted-up barn. By the way, you best not be entering without an excellent credit rating.

Do not darken my busted-up barn door if you aren't dressed like an 1854 French hooker suffering from consumption and at least one venereal disease. If you're sporting flip-flops, shorts, and a tank top you better at least be wearing one of my signature hand-painted $450 kimonos to cover that crap. And, the kimono better be wrinkled. I'm not talking left in the dryer overnight wrinkled. I'm talking artfully wrinkled, preferably with at least six holes, three visible rips, and more fringe than fat Elvis ever thought about wearing on stage in Las Vegas.

My busted-up barn is filled to the exposed rafters with not only kimonos but also pantaloons, slips, stockings, corsets, bustles, and jabots made from flax, burlap, and aged flour sacks. Don’t forget, it’s BOGO half price this Friday afternoon from 2:02 to 2:04.

Naturally, everything is highly uncomfortable and Expensive with a capital E. The following colors are available: white, off-white, cream, ecru, bone, ivory, and porcelain. The following sizes are available: XXS, XS, and S.

Of course, I have many other items for purchase, not just clothes for French hookers. You’ll find curated treasures such as: a 150-year-old wash tub filled with a tumbleweed for $195 (the tumbleweed is free of charge); a wrought iron twin bed, once owned by an actual 1854 French hooker, for $3,482 (mattress and linens sold separately); a bicycle that will get you nowhere with a broken chain, and only one semi-flat tire for $700; a hutch held together with twine, spit, and a prayer for $2,038 (crockery sold separately).

Beckett, or Dax, or Holden, or Kai, or Sullivan is available, for a nominal $200 fee, to help you load your purchases in the back of your daddy’s daddy’s dad’s white, off-white, cream, ecru, bone, ivory, or porcelain Ford truck. The rest of you losers driving a Range Rover, BMW, Mercedes, Audi, or Porsche are on your own.

So, get on down here and get you some. Don’t let my dream die.

Sincerely and seriously,

The Busted-Up Barn Owner

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