A Letter to The Writer

Dear Me,

I want you to remember this part of your life. Remember that you're working a shit job that will get you absolutely nowhere. Remember that everyone you know has graduated from college and you're still barely a sophomore. Remember the constant rejection letters from agents, the fact that you still live with your parents like some horrendous cliché.

Remember your fear of affection and how you don't think you'll ever find love. Remember how it feels to be an outsider in a town you've lived your whole life. Remember what it's like to feel defeated.

Remember this time, and these moments.

Most importantly, remember that you conquered them. Remember that you showed them all.

I don't know who you are or what you're doing or who you're loving, but I know that you figured it out. I know because you're working so damn hard to figure it out right now.

And right now is fucking hard. It blows like a two-dollar whore. You know, too much teeth. But I know that we've made it. Because you're better than I am. You've come farther.

And you'll only go farther.

Love,

Yourself

Lovely Part II

I hurt you once, lovely,
in a fit of self-destruction that
opened my eyes and closed yours.

Well I'll hurt you twice, kid,
make good and sure you won't
hurt me again. I'll lie to you, kid,
I'll push you away,

and you won't even know it's happening
until I'm two states over with a borrowed
name and a new face.

Well, lovely, I can't say it comes as
a surprise, sitting in my bubble
thinking I've finally found
Someone who understands and who cares.

I knew that was too much to ask, lovely,
and I asked it anyway.
Silly, silly kid, that's me.

Look, kid, now's not really
a good time for this. Neither is
tomorrow or next week, maybe,
probably, never ever.

I told you once, kid, I push people
away, and to me you're already gone,
lost at sea,
pushed pushed to still waters and I'm
Long back on shore.

That's okay, lovely,
I'm pretty good at getting by
on my own.

Spent a lot of time in the middle of
nowhere with only my stupid head to
keep me company. I'm used to it,
lovely. By now, I'm used to losing you.

Listen, kid, the truth is hard to hear
and harder to know, but the truth is this—
I don't wanna be found.

I know, lovely, I know.
Don't you worry your pretty little head
about me, lovely,
I'll keep you lost.
I'll stay lost.

The D Word

And here's a clue, it's not diabetes, dementia, dysentery, or dick. The word: diet. It's a word that women think, and talk about, ad nauseum. And how can they help it? The first caption on every magazine cover is how to lose weight by eating more, the perfect workout to shed pounds faster, how to become an entirely different person in 30 days or less without going all American Psycho on someone. And thus the obsession continues.

This is not to judge, because I am one of those women. Should I not eat carbs after six in the evening? If I'm only supposed to eat egg whites, what the hell am I supposed to do with the yolks? How can I possibly be eating 1300 calories a day, working out an hour a day, and still not be losing weight?

The answer to all these questions—nobody but me cares. Sure, everybody will admire a svelte, newly-slim figure from afar, and the women will off-handedly wonder how I did it (while simultaneously hating me for my success), and the men will stare at my ass. But nobody really wants to know how.

I call this the Miracle of Hotness Phenomenon. Men and women will accept that one woman is hotter than another, but nobody wants to know how it's done. It's just like every other cool thing: CGI in a movie, a magician's secret panel, Kim Kardashian's boob job—thinking about the process is not at all fun.

The problem with the Miracle of Hotness: how on earth is a woman supposed to get real advice from a real person when nobody wants to talk about how to get skinnier? Talk to your man about it, he gets bored and annoyed. Talk to your mom about it, she'll tell you you're beautiful. Talk to your best friend about it, and suddenly it's a competition. And constantly trying to one-up your best friend doesn't help your Miracle at all.

So while the Miracle of Hotness remains quietly under wraps, except in obnoxious magazine covers (New Secret to Losing Weight: Eating Nothing But Strawberries and Pepper! And See Insider Special: Hate Your Body? Take a Pill That Rewrites Your DNA!), the rest of us have to struggle without assistance or support, hoping that with enough determination and hours of spinning classes that we will look like Halle Berry.

Of course, there's always the American Psycho option.