Buy the Book - Illustrated Men

The fabulous Michael Breyette has a new book out, Illustrated Men which you can buy on Amazon.

I have a short story in this book, it's called Dirty Laundry, and it was inspired by one of my favorite pieces of Michael's art.

You can also buy the eBook download on the MLR Publishing website.

I'm really excited to have been part of this project. Thanks Michael for including me, and thanks to all who've already emailed me regarding an autographed copy. You guys rock.

One Way

It was a Chevy Citation. I drove that thing into the ground. I think it finally just disintegrated. I remember driving around Bakersfield seeing parts of it that had fallen off along the sides of the road. Somebody would say, "Hey, isn't that your bumper?"

Hmm. Yeah. So that's where I left that.

He was the singer of a band. They were pretty good, but he wasn't. He had the look, but he sucked and he was just too shy to front a band. I think they finally broke up when the drummer became a Scientologist or a democrat or some shit. I'd see him around from time to time, he'd be busing tables at Denny's or shoplifting eyeliner at CVS. Somebody would say, "Hey, wasn't that your boyfriend?"

Hmm. Yeah. So that's where I left him.

It was the night. It was the dark. It was nothing but me on and the Words. I'd write for hours on the side of the Grapevine sitting on the hood of that Chevy. Thinking about all the essays, prose and stories I'd written. But more, so much more, I'd think about all the Words that were to come. All the years of writing that lie ahead. All the novels and journals that were waiting to be written. Waiting, out there. Beyond any car or any boyfriend. Beyond the highways and the nights. There would always be the Words. And they would always be what mattered.

Somebody would say, "Hey, wasn't that your dream?"

Yeah. Always was. That's where you'll find my soul.

Own

The need to confess is powerful. And destructive. And sometimes selfish as fuck.

It doesn't always fix, it doesn't set everyone free.

Sometimes it's the most selfish thing one person can do to another.

Guilt is a hard cross to bear. We nail ourselves to it, we drag it around like a punished lover. We hump it in the dark. We curse it in the light. And when we see the chance to dump it we convince ourselves that's the "right" thing to do. When we just can't take it anymore we figure out how to chew our paw off and run. For some of us, it just never gets too god damn bloody, does it. It just never gets to be too brutal.

Much of life is intensely complicated. But this isn't one of those things. Really, it's quite simple. Hurting someone else by unburdening ourselves is the least common denominator of self serving. No matter how much semen and apple juice you want to throw on it. No matter.

Life is not littered with right and wrong. It is not truthful and clear. It's not one way, always. Life is fairy tales and dog vomit. It's ups and overs. It's esteem and expense. It's how you fail. It's how you cum. It's how you get lost in your own stupid backyard.

Sometimes it doesn't matter what you think the moral compass is. Sometimes your heart is blind, and your site is set wrong. And your stomach won't lie or justify. You are simply and utterly allowed not to hurt somebody else.

You are allowed to carry your own cross. You are allowed to shut the fuck up.

The Tell

He reveals himself in his gestures. He chooses certain phrases and specific Words. They say more than he meant to. They reveal his shadows with candid light.

He opens his refrigerator and offers me a beer. He doesn't turn around when I ask him about this new CD. It's on the counter, upside down. He freezes a little. He says it's just some studio project he got hired to work on. He says, "Corona or Coors Lite?" He shakes his head as he does. And that's The Tell.

"You're not happy with it." I put the CD back down.

He shrugs. "Why do you say that?" He reaches for a lime.

I remember his one room apartment in The Village 20 years ago. It was on the second floor, just over The Dragon Express. I remember how it always smelled like Chinese food. The TV had rabbit ears, and the windows were low. If I stood in front of them, the glass started just above my ankle and ended at my chest. There was always big white fluffy clean towels in the bathroom.

He worked for a laundry service. He drove a funky white van picking up and delivering laundry to hotels. He'd use the van over the weekends to transport his band to different gigs. And he'd borrow an armful of nice clean towels every night. He'd return them used, adding them to the bags of incoming in the back of that funky white van.

He had two big mattresses on the floor. If you were laying down on them on your stomach you could look right out those low windows at the street below.

Window to the world. We could see everything.

It was before. Before 9/11. Before taxes and insurance, before mortgages and child support. Before Peter died. Before West Nile Virus. Before texting. Before any of us even thought about selling out.

He has an ex-wife now, and a kid, and little house in Jersey. His hair is short. He buried his mother. He lost 4 or 5 good jobs, and 4 or 5 shitty ones. He drives a Hyundai Elantra and takes Lipitor.

This CD. It was a paying thing, a nice break from his IT job. A nice break. But not the kind we talked about, laying on our stomachs and looking out the windows, eating Shrimp Chow Fun out of white cardboard to-go cartons. Clean from the shower with long wet hair. Wrapped up in those fluffy white borrowed towels.

And he's happy for the most part. Or at least, he's OK. He lights up when he talks about his daughter. He got his black belt. He got closer to his father. He smiles and he makes perfect eye contact when he hands me a Corona with lime.

He smiles, and he looks at me. And we remember.

And that's The Tell.

Sundown

She took the long way. But when she finally got there, she was there. Whole heartedly, full time. Without any questions or regrets. She took the scenic route, and she saw everything that needed to see first, instead of wondering what everything looked like for the rest of her life.

The sun is always setting.

I think sometimes we don't have to understand a thing in order to appreciate it. We don't have to be able to explain to believe.

It's amazing what can happen when you love.

Darlin'

I knew this guy David when I lived in Cali. He told me he would have these dry runs, these practice drills, where he'd pack his car. Just so he could tell how much of his stuff he could take, if he ever left. Just left. He liked knowing he could fit all of his stuff in his car, so he could go.

I think people do that mentally all the time. They take mental inventory and assess the leaving. They figure out just how invested they are, so they can remove themselves at any time. Some people will always remain in tact. Whole. Especially those that leave the rest of us holed.

I have nightmares about you.

David never pretended. I'll love him forever for that alone. I knew from inception that he was going one day. Whatever I packed into his car would be lost. I knew. So I only gave him what I could live without. Like burritos and Dr Peppers in convenience stores in Taft. And the sun was always setting.

You on the other hand...

Present Perfect

She was in the right place at the right time.

He had decided to have a relationship that year. He said it would make life easier, and then there she was. It was during his "I judge everyone" phase, when his hair was long. She was there, and having not smoked pot or whored around she was pretty and perfect.

And I remember those late nights back then, when he was so into her, and he told me she was the love of his life. As if you could know that at 19. As if you could. But I let that go and gave him my shoulder when he'd vent about her cunt of a mother and all the things that weren't working. Something was wrong, something was off. He knew it. He swore his dreams would get him out of our crappy little town. It's amazing how many things he said and swore and meant, that he's completely forgotten now.

She was in the right place at the right time. But when he outgrew it, he grew. We were in different states at that point, and I wasn't around to watch the new loves come and go. But I'd get the phone calls, and I always listened. Sometimes things worked. Sometimes they didn't. Sometimes he grew, and sometimes he refused. I wasn't surprised when they stopped being girls. I wasn't surprised when he denied being gay. But I was surprised when he broke down.

It was a big world. Once he was out there in it, he felt small, no matter how big. And he didn't like feeling alone. He didn't like being used, and he didn't like being tossed aside. He didn't like working, or growing. He didn't like. And he really didn't like being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I like the beginning. When it's all possible. When it's undefined. When you're drinking in that new car smell.

But I like the end too. I like familiar and comfortable. I like when you know. So I understood when he said he was going back to her. I didn't give him a hard time like everyone else did. I knew he was scared. I knew he was lonely. I knew he'd regret it eventually. One day. But I nodded, and I never judged.

I just wanted to be able to wave hello from across the universe. I didn't need fanfare or a news conference. I just wanted to say I remember things.

And thank you.

And, hi.

She was in the right place at the right time. I sent him a text last summer one night when I was hanging out with someone he really did love. He sent me a text back saying simply, Don't tell him. Don't tell.

And then there he was last winter in CVS at 2 a.m. buying something for the baby. He didn't hug me hello. I didn't even know he was back in the neighborhood. He didn't hold eye contact. I didn't ask about her. He didn't, I didn't.

We talked about that time we dyed Easter Eggs.

Cut

You relive certain scenes again and again alone in your head. You stare off at the nothing and hear it over and over in looping. The replays change a little from time to time, a little is cut or a Word is re-recorded, but the script is the same. And there's no telling.

It's like your own private horror movie. And it's the only thing playing.

I wasn't a mean kid in school. I didn't hurt others over things like looks or sadness, or ideas. I didn't name call. I didn't tease. I never had to make someone wrong in order to feel right.

If I found myself in disagreement mostly I'd just walk. No compulsion to confront or confound. In time, anyway. Because through bashing and insults endured, I learned. I learned that most of them don't.

I can't watch the horror movie in my head any more. I can't keep seeing the names you call out in anger. I can't take the mean.

In the end it was my own thin skin that killed this film at the box office. In the end it was my oversensitivity that couldn't see in your darkness. I didn't stay for the closing credits. I didn't explain, because if you ever cast me at all, then you knew.

Your film is a success. So it's me, not you. I take the blame, the fault, the bad press and the poor reviews. Say I'm the one that blew it, that lost the role. Go ahead. But this isn't a character I can play. This isn't how I want to be remembered. It isn't the mark I want to leave.

I'd rather not. I'd rather be quiet.

And it was in the silence that we said the most.

"Hear no evil in all directions,

Execution of bitterness,
Message received loud and clear."

- INXS

Be Gone

Forget objectivity.

I can't even imagine the facts anymore.

They say you can't see the forest for the trees. You see even less when they're your trees. I remember reading a letter from van Gogh to Theo where he said he was too close, too close to the thing to see it anymore. Clouded by perception. We are marred by our subjectivity, turned toxic by our own truths. Looking at the world through a camera with our thumbprint indelibly tattooed on the lens. Looking through only ourselves. I'm at the point where I wonder if there really are any facts left at all.

And I think this is why we don't know how to forgive.

I don't want to be The Letter Writer anymore. I don't want to hate you anymore. I don't want to feel angry and betrayed everytime some random speaks your name. I'm tired of trying to figure out your reasons or your motives. And I'm completely incapable of seeing any err of mine. I don't want you talking about me. I don't miss you. I don't care about you. I don't anything you. I just want to let it all go, and I want you to let it all go as well.

"My Inflammatory Writ" Guest Blogger

I'm the 1st Guest Blooger on My Inflammatory Writ while Kari is on vacation.
Thanks, Kari.

OK. Let's Go.

I once fucked the Unicorn at the Ren Fest.

I use the term unicorn loosely. His whole costume consisted of a little loincloth, furry hooves on his hands and feet, and the headdress. His body was tan and lean. He was somewhere in between Pan and Puk.

It was a beautiful day, sunny and breezy. He'd been following me around, making dirty gestures. Just like the pickle boys and the beer wenches. But he was silent, playing the part. And I played mine.

104 honey meads later, I turned to my friends and said I'd meet them at the picnic benches in the food court in about an hour. And I walked up to him and said, OK. Let's go.

He followed me into the woods. I was wearing cut off denim shorts and a white peasant blouse with those knee high brown suede fringe lace up moccasin boots. And he was wearing that loincloth.

I kicked off my shorts and lay down on the ground. It was warm and inviting. I was giggling as if the Earth was tickling me. He got on his knees and began to take the headdress off but I said, no. No. He started to speak but I said, These are the conditions. No speaking. No names. And you leave that costume on, buddy.

I pulled my blouse open, smiling.

We rolled around in the grass and the leaves. I was on top, then he, then I. I remember looking up at the sunshine filtering down on us through the branches of the trees all around. The woods were beautiful. The day was gorgeous. The music from the joust was playing in the background, from just over the hill. I remember kissing his tan, smooth, bare chest, I remember the muscles in his thighs. I remember the sound of his breathing in the headdress: the panting, the moaning. The sigh.

The wish I make for you now, I learned with my heart on that day, more than half my life ago:

May you act like you're 21 sometimes.

May you be tickled by the Earth.

May you giggle without reservation.

May you be drunk once in a while.

May you welcome the sunlight and remember to shine.

May you feel sexy and celebrate it.

May you always hear the music in the background.

And may you forever believe in magic, moments, and unicorns with great big cocks.

Reflections of Turtles

Your hair looked so much hotter when you were with me.

Your tolerance was better, your mouth was sexier, your sadness wasn't as heavy.

And, painfully so, it goes without saying your borrowed lyrics were better too.

When I loved you, you were beautiful.

The fact is you're the same person. You probably look the same, and taste the same, and seem... the same. But when I held you in my eyes and my hands you were something more. Reflection is a fucking powerful thing, isn't it.

When I was little there was a movie I saw staring Connie Sellecca called Bermuda Depths. It was a great story, executed badly. But at the time, oh at the time, it was absolutely captivating. I was haunted by the tale of prayers received by Satan and killer turtles whose loyalty and mystery were unfathomable. The movie became the mark for me of what we don't understand, what is beyond, and what returns.

You've become this turtle. That loved me. That killed me. You are the fable that people tell, and mistell, again and again. A hundred thousand fans don't know you, don't know what I know. The rage of your father, the reflection you held. I listen from the sidelines like any other writer but I know. I know. And it hurts me like a crying whale that no body else does.

I fucked alot of guys after you. And I looked in their eyes, and made moments out of those brevities. And I'm embarrassed to admit how many times I sought you in those reflections. I'm pained to say I missed you, and the Earth of you. I touch the scars you left and I know you are so directly responsible for the writer I've become because of the wells of pain and love you dug in my soul.

I never found you. I looked, but I never found. I wish you'd listen, I wish you'd remember, naked moments when we were the only two people on the planet. It's the you that you were, that you've lost, that They will never know, not like I did. Not like I did.

They love your face. They love your voice. They think they see.

I can still taste all of you. Your tears, your blood, your punches, your cum. I can taste your destruction. I can taste your soul. I hate that you pretend you don't remember and then you'll privately text something only a killer turtle can know. You will forever be the haunting. Misunderstood, and miserable. And I will forever be that little girl in the sand. Praying to the wrong god, and waiting.

In Chin

He remembered me. It's got to be 25, 30 years. But he remembered. Because we were all the faces of the diner. We were connected strangers. Like the old waitress whose son beat his fiance, and the young waitress starting again with her two little daughters. The thieves, and the pickles. And the tattle tale, and the pie taster. And it's the things we hold on to, like the stories in the back booth by the windows where the cook's girlfriend told you about ice skates and some old lady's backyard. They were haunting and scary tales that you couldn't shake. Still can't. And just as you had yourself convinced it was all bullshit, it isn't. You go in to work for your shift to find out she left him. She left them. The girlfriend took off on the cook and abandoned her kids with him and everything. Just left. And it all became very real. It makes everything the truth. Across the counter, across the dining room. It's all in the details. No matter whose turn it is to mop. And you over use the conjunctions but they are what make it all connect. Like all the crossroads and wrong turns that lead each one of us to that forest-bound diner in winter, where the rice pudding and the coffee happened to be excellent.

Flickering

The hardest part about turning 40 was passing that threshold where anything is still possible. That feeling that there's still time. You know you're most likely not going to go back to school and become a marine biologist or something. But there's no reason to convince yourself it's never going to happen. Until you're 40. And then the reality sets in. There's not still time. You are what you are going to be. You're having the life you are going to lead. This is it.

This is it.

I did some things wrong. I made a few poor choices. Ten years ago that didn't feel as final as it does at 43.

Is it a coincidence that there's pain in my mouth?

I'm everything I'm ever going to be, right now.

Sometimes your life is small town

and your head isn't.

I remember playing Candyland, the feel of the plastic pieces in my little hands, by the light of Chinese Lanterns in our basement in Brooklyn. I remember thinking I could do anything. Believing there was time. Wondering what's next.

And I swear I know this one By Heart.

Standing

I would see things that made sense out of the nonsense. I knew him, and I knew what I saw.

And now I remember him much the way the Prisoner of Chillon remembered the rats.

I realize the hauntings are so much better than anything that actually occurred. Funny how funerals can make saints out of sinners. Strange, how memory does this.

I don’t get writer’s block. But I do get writer’s unwillingness-to-share. And I'm a big believer in waiting it out until it's thoroughly cooked. I don't want to contract Salmonella poisoning in addition to the toxins I seek out and save. I think too many bacteria make each other sick and confuse the symptoms.

I was standing there correcting the grammar on a film festival's scrolling advertisement when it hit me. I’m standing here, a hundred years from his nonsense and occurrence. I'm not a haunted prisoner. I've forgotten much more than I remember.

And I'm standing here,

Beta’ed and blocked.

Regret and guilt are shovels, just waiting for you to know when to start digging.

I know when it's working. I know when the rats are cooked and the only diseases are the ones I unearth on purpose. I know when I hit that emotional peek. It's a writer's secret: the real work is in the climb. In the freefall, god just takes over.

“This tells me so much more than you could ever say.”

- Cashback

I tried. I listened to the stories. One after another. I took things from the funeral. Birds, and champagne. I was standing there, someplace I didn't belong, with his rats and my rot. I'm not sure when I lost my way but damn that was the day I found it. That was the day I started seeing. And it's like what Lex said: "You're like a wind up toy that's got no more wind, but you're still standing."

Some Words are so subjective that they can't actually function as Words anymore. I just didn't know you were one of them.

Reconnaissance

They turned. Not me. And this was not the time.

I couldn't be as selfish.

I left through that garbage-lined alley.

I didn't look back at the liars. The cheaters. The infidels.

The martyrs and the self involved.

Trust breaks like a spine. There is no correcting this damage. There is no way my soul-screams can be heard now. This is over.

Coyotes will remove the liver from a dead animal. I only write from a distance. I think I'm afraid that if you name and label the emotions too early they never really simmer, and change, and become. I think the real truth lies in the reduction, the aged scotch, the planted seed. You have to wait it out. You have to let it Become.

And that takes time. That takes patience. If you birth the Words too early, it's like all your plants become male. And what the hell are you going to do with that? You have to know when to bring the light. You have to know when to harvest.

You have to know when to eat the liver. And you have to know when to surrender the kill to the wild.

I look at the things I did. And maybe it's still too early. But I see everything I did was wrong. I trusted too quickly, I loved too fast. I didn't realize everything was becoming male. I didn't know when everything went to shit. I went out there forgetting to look for the enemy. Forgetting to identify the fuckers. I kept the goal in focus even when nobody else did.

And I was shocked that nobody else did. I was shocked.

And that's one on me. I didn't know how bad it could be. I didn't know how bad they had gotten. I didn't know when that piss-soaked alleyway became a dead end where married people and broken promises go to get their way with the addicts and the whores. After all, that was my liver.

I look at the way this has changed me. And how I can never be unchanged again. I will forever be damaged by this. And that's another one on me.

Subside

Some things are just too painful to talk about.
But somehow nothing is too painful to write about.
Something about the pen makes everything free game.
Nothing is too sacred,
Nothing is too horrible.
Nothing is too beautiful.


We live certain disasters. We call them by name when we rediscover them with familiarity and infamy.
Because when you return, when you go back to the wreckage and own it,
you find a comfortableness and a stillness,
behind those locked gates in the dark.

You walked that road once. And you learned your way. And you won't make this mistake again.

You hit this point in your 40's when you realize your life isn't in front of you. It's behind you.

We were drinking Stoli and facing the sunset when I discovered just how empowering that realization is. I know what I'm doing. I know where I screwed up. I know how to own this. And I know how to write.

The greatest day was when you saw your unborn children and a thousand dreams. A hundred Christmases to come. When you didn't know what moments lie ahead.

The greatest day is when you see who has never betrayed you, and you've had three or four dozen Christmases you've loved. When you get it. When you know. And everything ahead of you becomes clearer.

We all suffer. It comes down to how you wear it. Like any good disaster there's the hopelessness, and then there's the healing. There's the calling. There's the writing.

It has nothing to do with the hurt or the loss. Or the senselessness. Or the way this wreck has left you broken.

You write because your life wouldn't have it any other way.
You write when you've been gutted.
You write when life needs a rhythm and a ransom.
You write when you're sad.
When you're torn.
When you feel.

When life is not a poem.

.

When the World Worked

And sometimes, you dance.

The intricate complex music of life flows on and on. The roads you chose to ignore, the paths you needed to follow. The faces that will forever be beside you, the people that faded away. The moves and the miles, the moments and the missing.

And inside of it all, when you're ever so lucky, sometimes the harmony aligns and you find a groove. And you allow this face, this movement, this moment, and you accept this dance. You dance, because life lets you. Once in a while. It all works out for one brief instant, and you have the opportunity to dance.

And after the rain and the radio,
After the wind and the waves,
The moment passes and you move on.

Life grants you gravity and inertia. The way life pulls you, the way it's hard to break away. The way the energy around you keeps its momentum. The way you sometimes forget. But the way you'll always remember those dances.

You look, but people like me and Tony, we change our names or go off the grid. Or spend a little time in South America and then pretty much become untraceable. Unfindable.

We wind up on different planets.

Sometimes it wasn't all in your head. Sometimes they find their way back.
Sometimes not.
Sometimes, you dance.

I don't know why I danced with him or her. I don't know why life was kind and the Earth smiled, and for one minute a million years ago it all made sense. And I don't know why she died, or why he loved her, or why I found him, but not her. Or why he had to find me. I know it has to do with the inertia and the gravity. And possibly the rain.

Years from then, years from now, you'll be someplace quiet when the music is slowing, and you'll remember certain seconds, certain flashes of wonder.
When it mattered,
When you melted.
When the world worked.

You won't think about the rain.
You'll remember the dances.

"I don't know how it happens. It all took place so quick."
-Dire Straits
.

Sentience

I remember eavesdropping, lying on a beach. Lying in the sunshine, hiding in the daylight. Quietly pretending to sleep, so I could hear.

The guy was maybe 26, the girl was maybe 19. They worked in the same deli, she was new. She was pretty.

She was talkative and happy. She jabbered on about work and play. Food and customers. Schedules and roommates. Rent and pay.

He was laid-back. Quiet, relaxed. Probably high. He was not really listening to her, he was just biding his time. He was lying in the sunshine, hiding in the daylight. She was telling him what she packed for lunch. He was getting ready to have her for dinner.

She was apple cheeked and fresh. No make up, no hair junk. And no idea. He was scruffy, and smart. Lying in wait. Lying in the sunshine. Probably high. Watching the clock.

It wasn't very hot, it was September in Cape Cod. It was breezy and comfortable. Quiet and clear. I listened with eyes closed, only peeking occasionally to see how he'd stare off, and nod and uh-huh. And wait. Putting in his time.

But then, she mentioned Jason. And his attention perked. She went on and on. How strong Jason was, how helpful. How cute. She smiled, a little shy and a little giddy. She had nothing to hide. She sang Jason's song in the sunshine with an innocent breeze. How he lifted heavy stock boxes, how he helped her find her drawer shortage. Little tales in the daylight for all to see.

He sat up, agenda jerked. He sat up and he nodded. He looked sympathetic. And then made his move. He explained he's known Jason for quite a while. And how great it is that Jason's making an effort. After all he had done.

She asked what, she asked who. And he proceeded to weave.

I'd sat up to watch. I was staring and he saw. He was lying in the sunshine. He was hiding in the daylight. But he'd been seen, and he knew. And he nodded to me.

I've been in that moment before. I've been that moment, all sides. I've been in the sunshine and the daylight, in the lying, in the hiding. I've been the breeze.

He shifted his weight, he rolled onto his side. He blocked my view and lowered his voice. But I knew what he was saying. Maybe not the exact Words. Maybe not the specific evils Jason would now wear in the dark. But I knew the idea.

I could still hear her, and the sound of surprise. And I closed my eyes. Lying in the sunshine. Hiding in the daylight.

Interrogative

You remember and re-sense the connections. Some people can do that. And when it's like kissing your brother, your body makes you repel. Almost every Dan you've ever known has been sexy, except for him. Your memories had physically manifested and you weren't able to do anything but hurt him in California.

One of the reasons you forgive as much as you do is that you're hoping for the same cosmic grace. So many things are out there that you regret, that you genuinely wish you could have done differently. Things you've written out and cried about, and can't fully let go.

You apologized once, at David's wedding. You meant it, and he saw that, and he was polite enough to forgive you. But nothing changed. You didn't forgive yourself.

You don't want everyone to see your darkness, but you want someone to see something. So you give it a try and you pledge to be yourself. But that feathers and fades, doesn't it. Eventually it's fake. Eventually you stop saying what's really on your mind because the real you isn't something any of them will get. And you learned early on from an old episode of Lou Grant that the more you let everybody know that you don't belong, the more everybody will see to it that you don't.

You put on different masks for different rooms. You let only so much show. The taste of lies is worse than the smell of fear. And you can tell yourself whatever you want, it doesn't change the music. You're a story you forgot to tell, the only one you didn't write.

You were stupid once, you just didn't get it. You were lucky that part passed. You were 26 once, and I'm not just talking about years. You turned heads and fucked rockstars, but that was a lifetime ago. You don't make the same wishes anymore. You pay for your drinks. You have a plan. And you aren't going to change the world after all.

You speak in second person plural out of loneliness, out of wanting not to split infinitives or be the only damaged writer feeling this way. You did one thing right. And thank god for that everydamnday because as it turns out it was the most important thing.

You can blame your father for alot of this. You can blame your mother for the rest. You've got a little more rage than you know what to do with sometimes. But you manage enough self medication to keep all bats contained in makeshift belfries. And you sure as hell confuse remembering with imagining.