An old letter. An ode to one bird; the other got the stone.
8/11/2004
She drove very fast. It was her way of expressing her anger. This is the point in time where I'm supposed to ask her what's wrong, but I do not.
I ask her if she wants me to roll down the window and she is forced to answer me or risk EVERYTHING; as if everything is very much.
One day earlier I was in the same area in a car travelling at a moderate speed. These things don't matter at all but they are an interesting reflection. Animals travel in patterns.
She's driving so fast that she thinks she sees a car in the other lane and I say "Oh you thought the car was in our road?" without any response.
This was a she who was always late and taking her time about everything. I really needed to get home, so it was a blessing. Even when I got home, I was late, so perhaps I chose the wrong word. Anyhow still.
This was a day of promises. She's learned by now to keep the sexual innuendos down and I think she's pretty disappointed in limiting herself but it's the least she can do if I have to pretend to be someone I'm not around her.
One trip to Tangent. The life of an actor. One might confuse me with a sociopathic person, but those people are just crying out for normality. A relative suggested that when I cut my hair, I go for the eccentric writer look and I remark that it's exactly what I am, so that helps. The question of stereotypes still goes unanswered. I know you better than anyone else and I see through the haircut.
You could peel off all of your skin and you're still a writer. Some people use the 'look' to identify themselves to other writers, if such a look even exists.
We're talking earlier about my hair and she, like everyone else, suggests that I alter it in minor way. The goal, for you, the audience, was always to keep in mind that the hair needs to become more professional. I think I might have the solution but the thing about it is I NEVER ACTUALLY DO ANYTHING FOR MYSELF. This isn't my hair, it's theirs, so I have to make sure it looks okay.
Speeding down the freeway, we almost hit several cars and the expression on my face is a squint. I'm tired and I'm trying to remain expressionless. It works a lot better to display yourself as completely ignorant to others while always staying alert. I learned that trick from a couple of sociopaths I knew.
I use the name of another state often, which produces a feeling. The feeling is like a vice being turned onto the level of tension. I say all the wrong things in typical she fashion, which is supposed to please her. I could actually almost respect her until the moment she pulled me away.
The mystery stands. However, most mystery books won't sell unless they're evocative. I wasn't sold, so I'm not searching for clues. Every story is a mystery until it is read. Some stories are comedies even when they aren't supposed to be. Thirty-second speeches about nature. Character development is on the rise, when in true life character development is something we lack considerably.
She drops me off at my house and I try to take my time. I roll up the window and I unlock the door. I say thank you for dinner and I'll talk to you later. She says later and drives off.
For some moments before, I had almost learned to respect her. I looked at her when we talked. But when she slammed doors and drove twice the speed limit, I couldn't look at her face for anything.
When I stepped into the house, I realized that the car was still speeding even though I wasn't in it. I realized that it was some metaphor for my life about people who get so wound up in the moment about the prize they praise and wind up losing it in the excitement.
Once upon a time, my best friend dropped a quarter and never bothered to pick it up. I remember the little things.
The end
When I came home, I spoke to you and you know what happened then. Maybe we should stop sending letters after all, if we still want to love and understand each other. I'm afraid I pick up all the change I drop.
She drove very fast. It was her way of expressing her anger. This is the point in time where I'm supposed to ask her what's wrong, but I do not.
I ask her if she wants me to roll down the window and she is forced to answer me or risk EVERYTHING; as if everything is very much.
One day earlier I was in the same area in a car travelling at a moderate speed. These things don't matter at all but they are an interesting reflection. Animals travel in patterns.
She's driving so fast that she thinks she sees a car in the other lane and I say "Oh you thought the car was in our road?" without any response.
This was a she who was always late and taking her time about everything. I really needed to get home, so it was a blessing. Even when I got home, I was late, so perhaps I chose the wrong word. Anyhow still.
This was a day of promises. She's learned by now to keep the sexual innuendos down and I think she's pretty disappointed in limiting herself but it's the least she can do if I have to pretend to be someone I'm not around her.
One trip to Tangent. The life of an actor. One might confuse me with a sociopathic person, but those people are just crying out for normality. A relative suggested that when I cut my hair, I go for the eccentric writer look and I remark that it's exactly what I am, so that helps. The question of stereotypes still goes unanswered. I know you better than anyone else and I see through the haircut.
You could peel off all of your skin and you're still a writer. Some people use the 'look' to identify themselves to other writers, if such a look even exists.
We're talking earlier about my hair and she, like everyone else, suggests that I alter it in minor way. The goal, for you, the audience, was always to keep in mind that the hair needs to become more professional. I think I might have the solution but the thing about it is I NEVER ACTUALLY DO ANYTHING FOR MYSELF. This isn't my hair, it's theirs, so I have to make sure it looks okay.
Speeding down the freeway, we almost hit several cars and the expression on my face is a squint. I'm tired and I'm trying to remain expressionless. It works a lot better to display yourself as completely ignorant to others while always staying alert. I learned that trick from a couple of sociopaths I knew.
I use the name of another state often, which produces a feeling. The feeling is like a vice being turned onto the level of tension. I say all the wrong things in typical she fashion, which is supposed to please her. I could actually almost respect her until the moment she pulled me away.
The mystery stands. However, most mystery books won't sell unless they're evocative. I wasn't sold, so I'm not searching for clues. Every story is a mystery until it is read. Some stories are comedies even when they aren't supposed to be. Thirty-second speeches about nature. Character development is on the rise, when in true life character development is something we lack considerably.
She drops me off at my house and I try to take my time. I roll up the window and I unlock the door. I say thank you for dinner and I'll talk to you later. She says later and drives off.
For some moments before, I had almost learned to respect her. I looked at her when we talked. But when she slammed doors and drove twice the speed limit, I couldn't look at her face for anything.
When I stepped into the house, I realized that the car was still speeding even though I wasn't in it. I realized that it was some metaphor for my life about people who get so wound up in the moment about the prize they praise and wind up losing it in the excitement.
Once upon a time, my best friend dropped a quarter and never bothered to pick it up. I remember the little things.
The end
When I came home, I spoke to you and you know what happened then. Maybe we should stop sending letters after all, if we still want to love and understand each other. I'm afraid I pick up all the change I drop.