My dear sweet Jack, who may just be a bigger pack rat than me, produced a letter that I had written him in 1993 via email, in which I proceded to tell him how truly unhappy I was with life in general and sent it over to me. Since I read it I have not been able to get in a really good mood. Mainly because most of what I wrote in that letter could have easily been written today.And this is that part where you all begin to wonder if maybe I'm bi-polar...don't worry. I wonder that, too. But I'm not going to a shrink so don't even suggest it.
The letter reads, and I quote: "...I've come to the conclusion that I am not really happy, that I'm not really laughing when I laugh, but I always really cry when I cry..."
Then I go on to whine about my mortality: "...no matter how great something is supposed to feel, I know its going to end soon."
The clincher, of course, reads like the theme of my entire MFA creative thesis: "...Is happiness even a real concept to be acheived?"
Was I really this miserable in college? What the fuck was going on? And why am I still in the same funk?
All of a sudden I'm craving some pizza and wings from the Sub Shop and a whole case of Schlitz beer...
*smooches...behind a wall of tears...*
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i am sitting, watching
out the window of the coffee shop
and i'm waiting, waiting
waiting for it to let up
i am rocking like a cradle
warming my hands with the cup in between
i am leaning over the table
holding my face over the steam
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