Dear Correspondence Session,

This may be the last time I write to you.

While it has been a good run, I think I may be ready to move on.

Even then, I have this overpowering feeling that I’ll be back some day soon.

Take care C-Sesh (I hope you don’t mind if I call you that).

-earl.

Dear My Own Personal Cinderella,

I was half-ass cleaning my car a few months ago and I found something that looked like a small pen.  I wasn’t sure what it was at first, but I came to the conclusion that it wasn’t mine after I read the words on it that said:

Prestige Waterproof Automatic Eyeliner/Contour pour les Yeux in BE-01 Black.

And naturally, I’m sitting here wondering who you are. What hands held this and laid precise black strokes upon the eyelids of almond-shaped eyes?  What purse dropped this in between the cushions of my passenger seat?  Was it an accident or a unserendipitously failed plan?

And maybe not so naturally, I’m wondering if you and me could have ever become a we.  After all, I’ve always wanted the adulation of all video gamers, casual and hardcore.  Ok, bad pun. But for reals, it would kinda fun to be a game console… Wiiiii!  But seriously, if I had found this object earlier and returned it to you, would sparks have flown?  Would they have ignited something fulfillingly scary, comfortably exciting?

But that is all for naught.  Instead of living this, I can only imagine.  The images of possibility swirl about my minds eye.  I’m awash in a torrent of need, want, romance, and heartbreak.  The songs I might have sung and the usually bottled-up words I might have spoken swim about in ephemeral images of movies, theatres, restaurants, museums, mountain trails and ivy-covered balconies in faraway places.

They spin about in a vortex centered upon this otherwise insignificant cosmetic accessory, slowly fading and sinking into its real-world matter.  And when the images and sounds disappear, all that is left is this small silver and black object held loosely in my callused hands.

Then, the practical me surfaces and thinks, “Stop bumbling, you idiot.”  I know, I know.  At best, you’ll probably just say, “Oh thanks, I’ve been looking for this.”  No sparks, no ignition, no meaningful songs.

I suppose it’s fun to daydream though.  Some days, I subsist solely on daydreams.

Anyway, if you want your glass slipper back, you know where to find me.

-Pauper Revolting

Dear Nerves,

Even after all these years, you still have a keen hold on me.  Without fail I feel that throwuppy feeling whenever I think about stepping on stage.

I’d appreciate it if you’d stop visiting.  It’s not that I don’t like you as a person.  It’s just that I no longer think your presence behooves my desired progression.

That being said, I suppose I’ll see you tonight.

Til then,
-Argus

Dear Hope,

Good evening, you tricksy sonuvabitch.

I have known you for most of my life.  Still even now, I find myself questioning your motives.

There are times when you’ve picked me up and carried me over the proverbial “hump,”  but there too, are times when you’ve picked me up only to suddenly let go while standing just over the crest of that hump.

9.8 m/s^2.  That’s how fast my body accelerates as gravity pulls it towards the ground.  A 5-foot fall doesn’t sound too painful, but it really is, especially because of the hump.  It takes the force that would have normally been spread across my entire body and focuses it on a smaller area, namely my T4 vertebrae.  Crack.  My back’s broken.  If this were the comic books, I’d be alright.  All I’d need would be a good respite in my fortress of solitude/lazarus pit/batcave/x-mansion/canadian wilderness.  In the meantime, my friend Azrael would take over all my worldy duties.

I however, have no arctic fortress nor a group of superhuman chums.

It’s just me, Hope.  It’s just me, lying on top of the hump with my extremities splayed out and my spine bent at an awkward angle.  I’m crying out in pain.

The worst part isn’t the physical pain really, it’s the pain that comes from that safe feeling I had while you cradled me in your arms.  That feeling that suddenly disappeared and was replaced by that weird stomach-contents-hitting-my-fundus feeling you get when you ride Superman.

We’re not done,
-earl.

Dear Earl,

I have no doubt that one day you will become the person I aspire to be.  One day you will self-actualize.

These days, it feels like you are ever stepping forward to your eventual goal, which is awesome.  What you didn’t realize, however, is that with every forward step you take, you also gain new perspective.  With that new perspective comes the realization that you were further from the goal than you thought.

Don’t worry, though.  I suspect that’s the natural order of things.  It forces you to learn more and more every day. If there’s anything I know about you, it’s that you fear becoming stagnant.

My take home lesson, I suppose, is to relish in the struggle.  You’ll come out that much stronger for it.

I just wanted to add that despite what I say or do, I do think your’re kinda cool.  Maybe that’ll give your confidence a much-needed kick in the ass.

Take care of yourself,

-earl.

Dear Simulacrum,

Good evening.  I have but a single question for you tonight: Are you true?

Have you been living up to your own philosophies and ideals? You speak of truth in your entries, in your songs, in the random musings you scribble in your worn notebook.  You revere books and works that celebrate the search for truth, especially truth of self. In fact, it seems to be a singular subconscious obsession of yours.

“To thine own self be true.”

However, obsession is not possession.  So, I ask again; Are you true?

I think not, for I recall a moment but a few days ago where you were presented with the opportunity for truth.  Instead of taking that chance, you shirked away, fearful of the possible consequences.  And so I wonder, who is it that fears the truth?

People that have something to hide, yes?

“Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate.  Hate leads to the Dark Side.”

I implore you to think on that for a second.  I mean, do you really want that to happen to you?  Sure, you’ll eventually become the galactic nexus of badass, but first you have to get through the portrayed-in-prequels-by-a-whiney-little-byatch-ness.  Not so appetizing, says I.

Follow it, young padawan.  Follow it.

May the 4th be with you,
-revan.

Dear Goatee,

Now that I’ve shaved you off, it seems I’ve reached the peak of ethnic ambiguity.  I can’t even tell what I am anymore.

Peaces,
-the everyman.

Dear Jackass,

I’ve been trying to write something for a while, to no avail, and I think I’ve finally nailed down the reason why. I think that for me to write something nice and organic, the words must spring from an emotional center. And apparently I have been unable to tap that for a few weeks. Or, I’ve been able to tap it, but not at the right time.

So, I suppose, thanks for helping me in that respect.

Unfortunately, no real thoughts or feelings of positivity spring from my reflections upon you. As such… I declare this a rant. It is an official putting on of blast.

You, sir, are a cheap, selfish, delusional, lip-servicer. You are the very epitome of the Tagalog word, “Kuripot.” I love how you pay your employees unfair wages and complain how you’re making no money as you drive your 550-series Benz every day to your house in Irvine. I dig it when you spit worthless promises of raises and finally providing benefits in an effort to guilt your employees into staying.

I remember that day when you cried your crocodile tears to all of the employees, talking about how afraid you were that the business wouldn’t last.

It’s awesome when you complain about how things in the business are going wrong, sitting there blaming the people who have been loyal to you for years, and then asking people for more hours… without offering a raise.  I don’t know why you would… no one’s gotten a raise in years.

Seriously, I don’t say this very often and mean it… Fuck You. You are a snake. Fuck you and I hope you get yours, asshole.

All in all, I am ashamed to count you as kin.

Kiss my ass,
-me.

Dear You,

“I can’t figure out just what to do when he cause and cure is you.”

How do you do it? Despite the strength I feel in my busy moments, I find myself weak because of you.

All it requires is a minute inconsistency in the otherwise streak-free immaculateness of my emotional armor. With subconscious precision, you find that imperfection and aim your lance inently upon it. Where the lance’s keen tip should have glanced off, it now catches, giving you the required leverage to knock me free of my saddle.

And here I sit, a petulant child, pouting as I rub my injured chest.

It is in those quiet moments that you find your way into my thoughts. While the sting no longer knocks me off my horse, it is enough to break my stride.

This is the part where I tell myself to grow up, “man up,” and move on.

Don’t worry, it’s not you.

-me.

I could have sworn I had published this…

Dear Week,

You have been hellishly busy. It’s Sunday night. I haven’t had a night to myself since perhaps the Friday before last. I’ve accrued a one-week sleep debt comparable to my college days. My eyes are puffy. My odometer hates me. My bank account is a raging joke.

For some reason, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

-hank.