The public newspaper isn't often used to interrogate private matters, unless you're Sally Quinn. But sometimes, curiously, men try to write about their failed love lives like sullen teenagers, and the results are humiliating (for them).

Much has been made about the fevered fondling, melting kisses, and pillowing breasts in President Warren G. Harding's recently published love letters to his mistress. You may have heard John Oliver read a few choice passages, but you haven't experienced Harding's smutty fuck notes as they were meant to be read until you've heard them performed by rapper/regulator Warren G.

If all you know about President Warren G. Harding is how quickly he died after taking office, prepare for some presidential trivia you'll never be able to unhear. Harding's love letters—or, as John Oliver puts it, "smutty fuck notes"—to his neighbor's wife are a treasure trove of pillowing breasts, fevered fondling, and penis nicknames.

A Thanksgiving spent away from the internet is NOT an excuse to miss out on Thought Catalog's holiday bounty—of love.

Imagine if the married 48-year-old man who somehow acquired your phone number and texts you a picture of his dick everyday instead texted you a picture he had just drawn of Charlie Brown saying your name. That would be romantic right?

This brutal, heartbreaking love letter was found in 1998, lying on the mummified body of Eung-Tae Lee, a 30-year-old Korean man who'd died in 1586, some four hundred years before. Lee was tall and bearded — "The dark mustache made me feel that he must have had a charming appearance," says the former director of the Andong National University Museum — and left behind him a pregnant wife, the letter's author. Here it is, via Letters of Note:

Today, Vanity Fair published several excerpts from the romantic correspondence of a young Barack Obama, displaying a penetrating mind and an impressive command of language on the part of the future president, who had just transferred from Occidental College to Columbia. His letters, as biographer David Maraniss writes, "wove [their] way though literature, politics, and personal philosophy"; our own Maureen O'Connor notes that they "reference T.S. Eliot, 'bourgeois liberalism,' and Jacques Derrida."

New York Times columnist David Brooks is a softy for many things, but especially ex-White House chief of staff Rahm Emanuel. Brooks doesn't get why people think Emanuel's so mean! He was always so nice on the telephone, after all.

We have some of the most creative readers in the world, so naturally they responded to the blank Lindsay Lohan Prison Postcard yesterday by filling it out in all sorts of hilarious ways. Here are some of the best.

As Glenn Beck, Lou Dobbs, Rush, and other wackos compete to be the loudest and most hysterical opponent of Barack Obama, one former boogeyman has toned it way down. Bill O'Reilly just wrote the President a nationally syndicated birthday card.

The New York Times is home to many of America's most annoying columnists: Mustachioed metaphor-mixer Tom Friedman; nature-gazing space-waster Verlyn Klinkenborg; unnecessary pop-politico nickname-giver Maureen Dowd. The paper's best columnist—against all odds!—is in the Metro section.

David Paterson: no one likes him anymore, though he's still better than the last, like, 10 governors. We only like him more after reading his insane love letter to his disgraced former aide.

This month's Harper's reprints a series of love e-mails between alleged Canadian terrorist Momin Khawaja and his internet paramour Zeba Khan. Sexy, dashing and extremely distrustful of America, Khawaja seduced the Pakistani resident and U.S. citizen through vague militant threats and a shared love of Cat Stevens. Under the weight of this man's considerable charm, who could say no?As if we don't already have enough reasons not to date bloggers, Khawaja e-mailed Zeba Khan after reading her blog post 'Why I Am Never Going Back to America.' The two started exchanging e-mails regularly on a variety of topics before Khan was arrested because of implications he was involved in a London bomb plot. The engagement was dissolved, but the letters are proof of what these two kids had.

Charlie Kaufman's directing debut Synecdoche, New York is the most inaccessible, challenging, infuriating, stupefying, heartbreaking film of 2008. It's also the best American movie we've seen this year, and as noted here this morning, it's required viewing this weekend for anyone who wants to be on our good side. Or history's good side, for that matter — and here are five reasons why.1. Philip Seymour Hoffman. Period. When we called our shot for Brad Pitt as the likely winner in a crowded Best Actor field, we hadn't yet seen Hoffman as Caden Cotard, a Schenectady, N.Y., regional theater director at odds with his painter wife Adele (Catherine Keener) and his own chronically afflicted body. When Adele and his young daughter leave him for new, famous lives in Berlin, Caden spends the next 30 years funneling a Macarthur "genius" grant into staging his masterpiece: A city within a city, populated by himself, his doppelganger (Tom Noonan), his doppelganger's doppelganger and those of the people closest to him. Yet nobody and nothing is as close to Caden as his own admitted psychosis, the layers of which collapse onto and into each other in scene after scene. Sounds great, right? Except, well, it is. Portraying a man vexed by doctors, lovers, work and ultimately himself (aging decades in the process), Hoffman digs into an adventure of suffering as ludicrous as it is bittersweet. In one crucial scene when the hunt for his estranged daughter takes him to Berlin, what little interaction they have both validates and fetishizes his paranoia — just one of dozens of metaphysical stunts that make Hoffman's performance thrilling and really kind of inspiring. He not only gets but owns all this mindbending melancholy, and for the maybe first time ever, we felt like we had a guide in our tumble down the Kaufman rabbit hole. 2. Six extraordinary roles for women. Starting with Samantha Morton as Caden's theater receptionist-turned-lover-turned-right-hand Hazel (and then Emily Watson as the woman who depicts her in his play), Synecdoche features enough dynamic parts for actresses to fill its own Oscar category. Michelle Williams and Dianne Wiest contribute brilliant turns as Caden's second wife and fourth doppelganger, respectively, but Hope Davis walks away with her scenes as arguably the world's worst couples therapist: 3. Charlie Kaufman gets to be Charlie Kaufman. Like director and former collaborator Michel Gondry, whose screenwriting debut Science of Sleep found a grandly ambitious balance of theory and technique that slipped through the twee seams of their Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Kaufman and his vision seem more potent and personal on their own. (Don't get us started about his overrated work with Spike Jonze.) It's another nifty trick under the circumstances; as Manohla Dargis alludes to in her fantastic NYT review, an opus about failure is itself a staggering creative success that took decidedly less than a lifetime to make. And for better or worse, it can happen to you. Maybe not the part about bedding Michelle Williams, but that never ends well anyway. 4. Hazel lives in a house on fire. Why? Kaufman professes not to know, but it makes already great scenes (and a classic, climactic bit of dark humor) altogether memorable. 5. Adele Lack's paintings. The square-inch canvases on display through the weekend at the Montalban Gallery are too absurdly small to require the paint-spattered basement workshop where Keener's character composes them, but we think their clues to Caden's past, present and future symbolize the rewards viewers earn for accepting an artist's challenge. Sound familiar? Like so much of the rest of Synecdoche, New York, it really is your life. We'd sincerely hate to see you miss it.

Though it's been a long while since Courtney Love caused controversy at the VMAs, the singer wasn't about to let last night's purity ring flap pass by without giving that virginal young upstart Jordin Sparks the what-for. Yes, even though Love claims not to have watched last night's ceremony (though she adores host Russell Brand), she took to her blog to denounce the latest crop of chaste young performers, giving them the sort of X-rated advice that would make a Jonas Brother blush (not that Miley, though — she's heard it all). We've excerpted the best bits below, though we warn you that they're hard to read — not because of their shock value, but because their author is the garrulous misspeller Courtney Love:

No one has yet come forward claiming to be the sender or intended recipient of this sad abandoned love letter found at the Nassau G station. A blogger just found another one at the same station. :(

A friend found this sad postcard this morning, abandoned. It is a love letter, dated May 26, 2008. It is addressed to "My dearest Mike" and signed "Love: Annie." It was found in the saddest place in the world: the platform of the Nassau Ave G Station. He would like to know if it is yours. Email us if you are Mike or Annie or maybe if you just would like to adopt a stray kitten.

It's safe to say that every celebrity, even Artie Lange, has their fair share of fans with crushes on them. But when the celebrity in question happens to be the Amazonian Tarantino muse Uma Thurman, this group of lovey-dovey fans will naturally include at least a few nutcases. Enter Jack Jordan, the soft-spoken schizo whose stalking enterprise we filled you in on earlier this week. But today, on the third day of his trial in New York, the actress finally took the stand herself to deliver her testimony. As the NY Times reports, Thurman began by describing a card Jordan had delivered to her trailer while she was filming My Super Ex-Girlfriend: