Oct 13, 2008

Apology Letters

Dear Readers,

I am sorry for subjecting you to a political post. It will never happen again. I am weary and wary of politalk. I want nothing to do with it, but sometimes, I fall into line.


Dear Cold,

I am ridding myself of you. I have no time for your debilitating actions any longer. Goodbye, and may your travels end after you exit my chest and head. Apologies in advance.


To Whom It May Concern,

I have a plan. It is a rickety rickshaw of a plan and the driver has scrawny legs-- or maybe none at all. I can't tell as of yet. Moreover, I'm not sure if you can even call it a plan as of yet, per se, but rather a contrivance. An idea, perhaps? An inkling of a thought process, without a fully formed rationale, sitting hot on the open over door of my brain.

This inkling is rudimentary at best, yes, but strong like a reinforced shelf. It is a written down inkling-- inked in the notebook of corroborative evidence in my bag. Beware of this inkling-- it could be the beginning of a battle, the seed that empowers the ground, the note that begins a major symphony. Or, it could be the first lobbed insult before a fight, the nail near the dress before a tear, the last beer before a black-out.

Get on board now, because as the inkling grows it will consume us. It will hang over us like shelter, shielding us from elements meant to destroy the inkling-- the ravenously forming thought we hold onto like tires gripping pavement.

Apologies in advance.

Your Friend,

Dear Women,

I am sorry. I have tried to make sense of our interactions, but have failed thus far. I am a paragon of false bravado, a sobriquet, a catcall to a battleaxe. I have been in limbo far too long, alone far too much, disappointing far too often and spreading myself thin for far too unfairly.

My hands are charcoal briquettes unburned, my eyes are darting wildly, my legs are shaking with boredom, my gloves are buried under unused t-shirts, my room is a mess of collections, my finances are not in order, my mind is wrapped tightly around the firepole leading into the pit of my stomach, my skin is stained with dust, my mattress is lopsided, my nightstand is wobbly, my hats are worn through, my books are stacked in rows, my reactions are aligned with spirit and soul.

God, how I have soul. I will love everyone and hate you all. I am the consequence of a million thoughts, rapid fire like wartime popcorn. I lack fortitude while standing up for everything. I am the sum total of a million arguments I never believed in, but I will believe in you, or won't I?

I am sorry, I am sorry, but I am aware of it. That is the falsity of a meeting in a bar, the constancy of love felt after five minutes, the intensity of a powerful oven cleaner. Ah awareness, the consistent end of brilliance, brevity and the last bastion of our never ending tension.

I am sorry, women, and non-apologetic.


Dear Redskins,

The Rams? Really? I apologize for saying you would "find a way to fuck up a wet dream." I knew you would, but I didn't have to say it. You didn't have to lose to the Rams, though. That was uncalled for. I mean, come on.


Dear Alcohol,

I know I don't love you like I used to. I know I don't use you like I used to. I know, I know, I know. I have no idea what happened, and for that, I am truly sorry. Perhaps we should meet up this weekend? Maybe a bite to eat and then I will abuse you like an Arabic middle name. Let us converse and mingle. Let us parry those that say you are evil and embrace as though we never lost sight of one another. Let the flippant call us bastards, the good call us ne'er-do-wells, the Christians decry us. We will laugh in their faces until our sickness befits us.

See You Soon,

Dear Vinyl Collection,

Sorry I haven't used you all that much. My friend gave me his old i-pod. Alcohol is going to come over this weekend. Wanna hang out? We'll remember us some good times and get shitbird drunk.


Dear Friends,

I'm good. I just need a minute. A quick minute.

My Bad,

Dear Video that Changed My Life,

Sorry I don't reference you as much as I should. My pary are with the f


Dear Apartment,

You have a hold on me these days. I sleep like a tired dog, I roll around on the couch, I wander over my computer keyboard as if it contained the antidote to my meaninglessness or loneliness. No offense, but it ends now. I am going to see the world as a series of good ideas and white-hot mission statements. This is the beginning and, sorry to say, you have to break your hold on me.

This is an open letter to you, apartment. I will spend less time with you, I will see you for what you are, I will run my feet over you in times of necessity, still, but you need to know your limits RE: your grip on my downturned brow.


Dear Readers,

Man this was long. Thanks for sticking it out. Here's a list of things I commonly misspell:
imbibe (I thought it was inbibe for so long, but I get it right nowadays)
statistics (really, it's just hard to type)

There's more, but I am ready to rest my goddamned head.

Thanks Again,


redrawblak said...

red sox what?

Dear Nancy,

To be sorry is to be apologetic, you fool. There is no antidote to meaninglessness. Perhaps loneliness. Perhaps temporary. There is nothing I commonly misspell, except for misspell. That's an irony commonly observed. You have no plan. Love the cold, or move back to Greens-borough. Cold fuels resistance, survival, and appreciation for human endurance. Then again, I am not embarrassed to be on display, and then again I might want you dead. Not personally. It's what we're faced with. And forget about vinyl--it died a long time ago, along with nostalgia. Ask ---, --- knows.


Business or Leisure? said...


Michael5000 said...

Yeah baby.

Gargamel said...

OMG tru stasticses is hard to spell as HELL.

Business or Leisure? said...

um, is the cat ok, garg?