YOU MAKE ME SAD, SHOOTING STAR

dear whoever the fuck,

I have been waiting, for AGES, to tell you something. I can't do it in an upfront way, like in a conversation, we can't just sit down and chat and be done with what I want to tell you. It's not that simple…

I have written a book, and have sent it out to ONE publishing house. ONE. Just one. It's due to naivety, optimism, laziness, and fear. Naivety, meaning that my book will be published immediately, and my young genius will be revered. Optimism, meaning that it will be published in the City that the book is somewhat dedicated to (Seattle). Laziness. Fear, meaning that I am afraid of being rejected numerous times.

It is like asking a woman for her hand in marriage, and waiting 3 months for a response because she has to weigh out all of her options. Fuck this system. Let me go or accept me. Unchain my heart, etc. mother of GOD, how long it's been! Did you forget that I asked? Did you forget my proposal shining in the sunrise of a long walk down to central park? I'm fucking rotting here, combusting with anticipation! Let me GO, let me LIVE!

Oh son of a shit. I want to see the sun. Seattle is without remorse. I can't handle sitting under the muddled gray. I need to know if my love was thrown away. dammit. Cussing is my main relief these days. Psychologists say it is good.

LET ME INTO THE TRUTHHHHHH YOU SONS OF BITCHESSSSSS.

My GOD—Diminished it never was, though I had sat myself down for a year, or over a year, for three years that felt like my lifetime twice over. I sat for myself soaked in smoke booze, campfire around the base of my back houses along young drunks row, 13th Capitol Hill, people's swarm of feet and words, meeting and meeting for a subconscious diversion in movement, in gawking for cream cheese hot dogs, bars and pizza and punk shows (and some guitar plucking) only so golden to my ears and feet after some more liquor. Yeah, I was sitting in the scheme of the almighty, of the milky way where we become hilarious insects, stumbling on a crack on the sidewalk searching for a pissing locale, struggling and wailing to exist while SHE flew to Europe, my crazy drunken spaced-out love I never had, Maura, dredged in the brilliance of unknowing, young and alive in the sun with past midnight lazy eyes, ripped straight from the legends of troubled rock and roll wallflower child, sent away like the Velvet Underground, Jesus & Mary Chain, she then flew to the popular backwards American dream of history and a classier man (or anything of which I knew nothing about except for what the media had streamed into my imagination—Modernist color strokes and Peter's church of the Lord, mustache intrigue, hostels surrounding Shakespeare's tourist lair, Paris, Paris, Paree, and all the no-accent accent girls ready to be up and off their feet, leaning like towers, always falling for that Irish chump, Oh yeah baby, take me away!).