Send your unsigned legible confessions and accusations of 400 words or less, changing the names of the innocent and guilty, to "I, Anonymous," c/o The Stranger, 1535 11th Ave., Third Floor, Seattle WA 98122, or e-mail us at firstname.lastname@example.org.
I did it. I succumbed to every Pamela Des Barres-esque fantasy I'd ever had. And alas, you are not even Jimmy Page, or Jim Morrison. You are an indie-rock hooligan from the East Coast, and I'm your drummer's best friend.
It's not easy to admit to playing the groupie role, especially when I don't have any drunken excuse for my actions. I was completely sober, and I've had a crush on you since we met four years ago. And through this chance meeting, I've become your drummer's friend and confidant -- and the girl who refuses to go out with him.
Sure I feel guilty, knowing that while he was passed out, I was doing things to you I'd never do with drummer boy, claiming we'd lose a great friendship. Truth is, although I love that kid, I feel nothing in the realm of physical attraction for him. But you -- the swarthy Italian with the swagger and crooked grin, the guy with the microphone and sweaty brow -- are the object of my desire, and now I feel nothing but guilt. It's not like I went into this without any prior knowledge to your proclivities while on tour: I knew about the girls in Jersey, and the chick in Ohio, but that didn't deter me. After the show that night in the tiny club, after that amazing set where you blew the other bands away, you became the coveted blue ribbon at the Evergreen State Fair. While underage Lolitas mulled around post-show, vying for your attention, I hatched a plan that would turn out to be my moral undoing.
Now when he calls from the road -- telling me how much he misses me -- waves of guilt wash over me, not only for neglecting him, but also for the desire I still feel for you.
I have become one of rock's greatest clichés, and I have no one to blame but myself.