The Letter Not Sent
Saturday, July 19, 2014
No one ever gives sometimes enough credit. But the word is there, suspended in a sentence to make the situation less heavy.
"Sometimes I pick up my dog's poop." Well, then, sometimes you're not a jackass.
"He makes me happy sometimes." But not enough for it to be a majority of the time.
"I eat sometimes." You're anorexic.
Sometimes leaves so much room for neglect.
You cannot live your life inside the bitter product of maybe.
Sunday, July 7, 2013
1,019,729.6 just simply isn't enough
What is the word for that transitional period between sleeping and dreaming, where your mind is trying to acclimate itself to reality but you've yet come to grips with the dream not actually really happening to you?
How about the word for the feeling and the act of replaying situations in your head until it feels like your skull is vibrating and the memory starts to become warped like a mental Dali painting?
How about when you're craving a certain food but you're not exactly sure what it is? Like, you can almost taste it, you can almost picture it, but it seems to be in your sensory peripheral.
What about the word for the exact moment you discover a particular purpose for yourself? For instance: my corpse-cold hands are absolutely perfect for making pie. (The secret to perfect pie crust is not letting the dough get warm until you bake it)
These are important things that need their own word. They are words that people can relate to.
I have a word for you, Websters. Inadequate. Don't worry, I think you'll find the true meaning of it right there inside of you.
PS. Last line was kind of bitchy. Sorry about that. Thanks for helping me out in high school.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
T is for tired
There are people that are just born tired. Their cells combine, their mouths form, and they yawn. This isn't to say these people are bored. This isn't to say that these people lack appreciation for the world around them. These are people composed of dreams so heavy, their eyes slide closed and their limbs take on too much weight to carry.
You've never gotten enough sleep, Rip Van Winkle, dream, dream, dream.
That's what I meant when you asked me what my mother was like. Tired wasn't another word for negligent or sad. She is Alice. She sleeps underneath shady trees and dreams of chasing that white rabbit.
She wasn't perfect. But she did make little cakes, breads, jams, and tea. She just happened to sleep a lot, that's all.
Some people just have too many dreams to keep them here for very long.
I really wish I could make you understand that. You seem so antagonistic towards my childhood, my mother, my memories of her gently snoring, and my mouth full of homemade jam.
S is for stretchmarks
We haven't always had the same idea of what you were supposed to be like. My first want for you was boobs, a butt, thighs, and hips. A real woman's curves. It took years and several cheeseburgers, but eventually you complied. I could no longer see the spread of my hip bones, jutting out like the wings of a flesh colored butterfly.
Then it was my nose, my teeth, my eyes, the color of my hair, the length of my legs, how sparse my eyebrows are, and that one weird mole that rests inside the hollow of my neck. Every time I looked in the mirror I just saw large pores and crooked teeth.
I've never really thought of myself as a pretty girl, but this isn't a letter about my self-esteem. This is a letter about my stretchmarks.
I became dissatisfied with the curves that I demanded of you. Maybe it was because we jiggled with every step we took, maybe it's because nothing fit right, or maybe it's because I ate all my sadness and whenever I looked down it just made me want a brownie.
So, you were nice enough to comply. I'm starting to be thin again.
But now, you're riddled with these shimmery white stripes. My calves, hips, breasts, and butt are now marred with stretchmarks.
And I really don't mind them.
These are our stretchmarks. They go for miles and miles to explain the woman we've grown into. The body of the child we've left behind. They are pink and red and silvery white, stretched around those parts people like to touch. They are ugly but they are the evidence of maturity. I look at them and I am proud.
Honestly, I don't think you've ever been so lovely.
I think I'll keep you this way. Crooked teeth, stretchmarks, and all.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Q and R, questions and responses
I grew up with you guiding my life from a very young age. In fact, I even wrote sermons in the hopes of one day becoming a lady pastor. They were all about how you should just love everybody, and they were all written in crayon.
I grew up, eventually. I stopped believing in you, or maybe you stopped believing in me. But I do still believe people should just love each other, because why not? It just makes things easier.
My reasoning for believing that when I was younger was because I was told we were all made in the image of you, and that you were a benevolent and loving God. It only seemed logical that compassion was the mirror and not this dumb monkey meat you put me in. So I tried to treat everyone as if they were all conversation pieces with God. I tried to love them as you did, I tried to show you what a kind monkey you made, a monkey that would teach other monkeys to be kind through actions.
But, then, life had more interesting and difficult questions. The only reply I could muster is that you couldn't possibly exist.
You see, like my crack addict uncle, I would rather you be dead to me than to stand next to your festering sink hole of lies and apathy.
That sounds way more bitter than I intended. Sorry.
I realized very soon after those hard ball questions, I was very different than these other monkeys. And they noticed. It was like waking up in the garden of Eden, bloated with those thinking apples, without a fig leaf. Except in this garden, everybody else had been awake for a while,no one else was naked, and their tummies didn't hurt from binge eating from the tree of knowledge.
These monkeys are really kind of rude, you know?
I was mad about that. But I eventually found science, which answered a whole lot more questions than your old testament of chicken soup for the soul, and I was satiated. I actually find more comfort in elements than in everlasting life.
I'm a random chance made of star stuff, and that's a whole lot better than being somethings lonely echo.
Listen: I'm not here to bash you for anyone else. I've seen the work you do for the ill and grieving. You give people hope and that's lovely. Thank you.
I just don't think people should be encouraged with a reward for barely meeting the qualifications of being a decent human being. That should just be a thing they do.
So, stop handing out paradise like it's candy. People are getting lazy down here.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
P is for personal space
Dear overly physical friend,
I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but please do not touch me.
I need more personal space than you do.
Yeah, I get it, I know we're friends. That's what friends do, they make physical contact to show some sort of human solidarity. I get that you are just being nice. I get that it's "my thing." And I honestly feel bad about it. I don't want to hurt your feelings and, contrary to my spacial needs, you do not actually repulse me.
But I don't like being close to other humans. My comfort zone is two feet. I was actually ridiculed by my psych professor for having double the "average" distance. Weird, right?
This rule applies to everyone but a handful of people, and even those people have stipulations.
Even when I am full on ugly crying, my best friend understands that touching should be minimal.
There is one situation that this does not apply. But we will never get there. So don't worry your pretty head.
listen: I'm not cold. I'm not still. In the right situation, under the right circumstances, and on my terms I love physical contact. I adore it. I will one day break the mold and probably rest my head on your shoulder or give you a hug. But don't force me there. I may not touch you for a while after that. Please don't force that either.
I can't explain why I'm like this. Nothing happened to me to make me this way. No amount of therapy has fixed it.
And I'm sorry that it hurts your feelings.
I will make you a cloth mother.
If that helps.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
I'm lazy. I will have many times that I don't update this thing like I'm supposed to. But I'm trying to keep on keeping on because of your unwavering and relentless support. I'm not calling you a nagger. Certainly not calling you that.
You tell me I should write and sometimes I have nothing to say. I have plenty to say when I call you 5 times a day (I'm surprised that your lady doesn't hate me).
So I thought, maybe, I should just write a letter to you.
Marsupials. I always wondered if it was gross inside their skin pockets. I bet so. I bet they never wash inside of there. Disgusting.
If I would have changed one letter in this post, it would have become offensive. Now I have my O.
Ha. Wakka wakka.
Okay. Now back to my homework mountain and cramming for finals.
PS. My next letter will be better. I promise.
Friday, April 12, 2013
K is for Kurt
You fell down some steps some years ago and scrambled your beautiful egg.
I was real sad about that.
I would have very much liked to have met you. Maybe pressed the bottoms of our feet together. Maybe held your hand.
Whatever you were comfortable with, really.
I just think you were the tops. I read your books and you made me believe what I already knew to be true.
But listen: the dumb confused kid I was and still continue to be, well, she thanks you. All your apples and dots and hi-hos, well, they kind of shaped me into the lady I am.
You'll be happy to know that I'm farting around and trying my best to write every day.