Dear Laurie Oliver,
You suck.
Damn unlisted telephone numbers. I would have called you, or more likely would have written a letter, telling you privately, more eloquently, and in more detail than the internet cares to know what a fucking amazing human being you are, but nooOOOoo, you gotta be unlisted. See? See what happens when you sequester yourself from the outside world? You miss out on shit like this. Having scoured the internet for your namesake and coming up with jack squat, other than a hopeful link to a theatre-related article which, for whatever cosmic reason, WOULDN'T FUCKING SHOW UP ON MY SCREEN, I am forced to do this.
In case I never told you, thank you for sharing your journals with me, thank you for introducing me to "Angie Baby" and "The Joker", thank you for being so open and giving of yourself in the few brief years that I knew you. Thank you for being the reason I write this stupid shit (still) today, and thank you for convincing me to some degree that someone will find it worth reading. If I knew where to find you, I would throw you a party and invite all the people from West whose lives you affected for the better and forever so we could show and tell you in person what a phenomenal person you are.
Call me, bitch. I mean that with all due love and respect, and by "due", I mean a lot.
Love and gratitude to you always,
Stephanie Jo Thorvalson