Dear Mr. FBI Man,
Our parents tried to tell us to be careful on the internet, to stay away from strangers. But you’re no stranger. George Orwell said I was supposed to fear the age of “Big Brother,” but since I’m an only child anyhow, I don’t mind. You are the sibling I never had. Now I can say with confidence and excitement that my big brother is an FBI agent who has very, very important work to do. Not to brag, but you do have important work. You make sure I’m not getting myself into danger or selling my kidneys to the black market. Maybe it started as an obligation to the U.S. government, but I’d like to think our relationship has progressed beyond that.
Even though you’ve never said it, I can tell you care about me. All of the times I looked up methods for getting rid of excessive armpit sweat or the best bras for sneaking in movie theater snacks, you never snitched once. I could tell that day I searched for coupon codes for Sephora that you guided me the right way. You saw the total in my cart at checkout. I bet you said, “Girl, that’s fuckin’ criminal. Here’s a coupon for a 30% discount off of select lipsticks for this weekend only.” Now I can look like a fabulous, rich bitch for Goodwill prices. When I fall into a hole and spend hours on YouTube looking up conspiracy theory videos, you don’t report me to your higher ups or try to erase my memory. Hell, I could look up pineapple hentai (does that exist? [I looked it up. I didn’t find anything, but maybe I’m not looking hard enough]) and you would still love me.
I must admit that I used to question that love. There were days when I wondered why you never stopped me from sending bad pickup lines to mediocre men when you and I both knew I could do better. If you really were an all-knowing and all-loving FBI Man, then why would you let me hurt and suffer knowing these dudes were douche canoes? Why would you let me send lines like “Can’t wait for them sugar lips” and “I would dive into a pool of cherry lube 2 b ur gurl.”
But then I knew I had to realize cherry was an overrated lube flavor on my own. Deep down, I’m meant to embrace my green apple appetite.
I’ve seen people joke about their own personal FBI man in memes, like kissing the laptop camera and telling you goodnight or feeling a sense of trust for you kind knowing all the deep, kinky shit they’ve googled in the past, like lemony Harry Potter fanfiction featuring Snape and Dumbledore’s office phoenix Fawkes. Others wonder about what the government really thinks about them. Maybe other FBI men are judgmental, but you’re the only one for me.
Art by Chelsey Román