Dear The Teacher,
WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE DOING? Where is this going? huh? Riddle me that!
So we fell into this "are you coming over tonight?" kinda thing where this question is actually asked by me almost every time. I did ask you what you wanted from me not too long ago and your answer was some bullshit like "I want to know you personally and see what happens from there". What does that really mean? Had I already been categorized in the "not interested in a relationship with" section? Are you not man enough to say "i'm not really interested in you, I just want somebody to screw"?
Now I want more and i'm left wondering whether you want anything. You're not making the effort. You spend your time out of town and I'm left with a random night. So it should be enough that we sleep over each other's place huh? Watch a movie once in a while? I should be satisfied with that? Don't you want more? I KNOW I'm worthy of more but fear holds me back from asking you that out loud. But I really want to know. I cant do the wondering thing anymore.
Where are you now? You went out of town AGAIN! I wonder what "friends" you're visiting this time. Must be nice. You cant even take a minute to text and say Hi. Oh that's right! You're probably waiting for me to ask how you're doing since you're supposedly so "sick". Uh huh, I believe you. You had a fever but yet woke up mighty early the next day and drove out of town. Tell me anything!
Wait! Hold up! Why am I even tripping? We have a TXT-ship! Why didnt I think of that before? We don't even talk on the phone, we txt..albeit every day...almost all day, might i add but a txt-ship nonetheless. It's been like 2 months of that tho, doesn't that count for something? Doesn't that mean anything to you?
I want to know: what the fuck are we doing? Is this going anywhere?
Simple huh?
-Tired of bullshit
2.22.2009
"With fucking love:" A Note Almost Sent
I thought there was an understanding: Be fucking honest with each other.
OK. So you are not "my man." Or "my boyfriend." Some how we let the last eight months develop into us telling each other that you're "my baby" and "my love." We never committed to each other.
I don't owe an explanation as to why I went out on a date with the older gentleman last month (you can't be surprised honey.), so why the fuck should you tell me why you have been stalking/calling/texting a 25-year-old?
What, you think you could hustle two of us? I mean, I did give you my heart. You probably chose not to except it and I chose to ignore the rejection a while ago.
But we kept talking every night. ... and every weekend.
We kissed. We danced around the bed without being in the bed.
We shared. And we fucking cared.
I don't think I led you to believe that I was ready to settle down with someone and have a baby. So why the fuck did you tell her that? Oh. You thought that I didn't know? I do. Yeah, I even know what you are telling her. But I know my worth. And I know the prize. Who fuck is the hustler now?
Listen. When you are ready to taste, feel and be REAL with a woman. Call me.
With fucking love,
YOUR "love"
date almost sent: february 19th, 2009
OK. So you are not "my man." Or "my boyfriend." Some how we let the last eight months develop into us telling each other that you're "my baby" and "my love." We never committed to each other.
I don't owe an explanation as to why I went out on a date with the older gentleman last month (you can't be surprised honey.), so why the fuck should you tell me why you have been stalking/calling/texting a 25-year-old?
What, you think you could hustle two of us? I mean, I did give you my heart. You probably chose not to except it and I chose to ignore the rejection a while ago.
But we kept talking every night. ... and every weekend.
We kissed. We danced around the bed without being in the bed.
We shared. And we fucking cared.
I don't think I led you to believe that I was ready to settle down with someone and have a baby. So why the fuck did you tell her that? Oh. You thought that I didn't know? I do. Yeah, I even know what you are telling her. But I know my worth. And I know the prize. Who fuck is the hustler now?
Listen. When you are ready to taste, feel and be REAL with a woman. Call me.
With fucking love,
YOUR "love"
date almost sent: february 19th, 2009
To My Soon To Be Former-Mother-in-Law: A Note Almost Sent
Dear Soon To Be Former-Mother-in-Law,
Last week you wrote me that it gives you great pleasure that your son is such a loving and a caring father. I have been told by several people that I should just let your comment go and not respond. But I think that is exactly what the problem is: for too long people in your son’s life have “let it go and not responded.” Well, I’m really having difficulty accepting that advice.
If by kicking his own children out of the only home they ever knew simply out of spite makes him loving and caring, then we definitely have a different opinion of loving and caring. If by not returning to the hospital when his newborn son was admitted to the NICU makes him loving and caring, then we definitely have a different opinion of loving and caring. If by starting an affair with a subordinate in his office when his sons were only six months old and going out with her to drink after work rather than returning home to help care for them is loving and caring, then, forgive me, our opinion of loving and caring is different. If fighting me on child support so that his payment doesn’t even cover the cost of the nanny (so that I can work and provide housing, food, clothing and other necessities) is loving and caring, then we definitely have a different opinion. I have many more examples, but I will spare you since I am not sure if you are aware of them.
The people who actually remain in your son’s life should really start calling it like it is. He is selfish, irresponsible and immature. He is a liar and a cheater. He wasn’t ready to get married or to have children. He has only recently stepped up to the plate to try to prove he is something he is not to the courts because his own attorney and the custody evaluator insisted he do so.
If we continue to pretend that your son is a man he is not, then he will never truly have a chance to turn into a loving and caring father.
Contrary to what most people believe about your son, I think he can do it. But, we all have to be honest with him and with ourselves, or he won’t ever have the chance.
Take care,
Your Soon To Be Former-Daughter-in-Law
Date almost sent: February 10, 2009
Last week you wrote me that it gives you great pleasure that your son is such a loving and a caring father. I have been told by several people that I should just let your comment go and not respond. But I think that is exactly what the problem is: for too long people in your son’s life have “let it go and not responded.” Well, I’m really having difficulty accepting that advice.
If by kicking his own children out of the only home they ever knew simply out of spite makes him loving and caring, then we definitely have a different opinion of loving and caring. If by not returning to the hospital when his newborn son was admitted to the NICU makes him loving and caring, then we definitely have a different opinion of loving and caring. If by starting an affair with a subordinate in his office when his sons were only six months old and going out with her to drink after work rather than returning home to help care for them is loving and caring, then, forgive me, our opinion of loving and caring is different. If fighting me on child support so that his payment doesn’t even cover the cost of the nanny (so that I can work and provide housing, food, clothing and other necessities) is loving and caring, then we definitely have a different opinion. I have many more examples, but I will spare you since I am not sure if you are aware of them.
The people who actually remain in your son’s life should really start calling it like it is. He is selfish, irresponsible and immature. He is a liar and a cheater. He wasn’t ready to get married or to have children. He has only recently stepped up to the plate to try to prove he is something he is not to the courts because his own attorney and the custody evaluator insisted he do so.
If we continue to pretend that your son is a man he is not, then he will never truly have a chance to turn into a loving and caring father.
Contrary to what most people believe about your son, I think he can do it. But, we all have to be honest with him and with ourselves, or he won’t ever have the chance.
Take care,
Your Soon To Be Former-Daughter-in-Law
Date almost sent: February 10, 2009
2.17.2009
when bad grammar spurs a well-written e-mail: a note almost sent
Dear Dean XXXXX:
My son is a freshman at your university and I am writing to thank you for your recent letter. I think that your advice regarding choosing a major is very wise.
I am, however, troubled by the fact that you apparently do not know the difference between the word “affect” and “effect.” (To wit: “Think of this: have you ever heard anyone, say at age 35-40, complain that their choice of undergraduate major negatively effected [sic] a career?”)
I guess that $50,000 a year is not enough to purchase a faculty with even a rudimentary grasp of the English language.
Very truly yours,
An Irate Parent
date almost sent: sitting in draft folder for years
My son is a freshman at your university and I am writing to thank you for your recent letter. I think that your advice regarding choosing a major is very wise.
I am, however, troubled by the fact that you apparently do not know the difference between the word “affect” and “effect.” (To wit: “Think of this: have you ever heard anyone, say at age 35-40, complain that their choice of undergraduate major negatively effected [sic] a career?”)
I guess that $50,000 a year is not enough to purchase a faculty with even a rudimentary grasp of the English language.
Very truly yours,
An Irate Parent
date almost sent: sitting in draft folder for years
2.16.2009
"May everything terrible come back to you tenfold:" a note never sent
In you I put every hope and dream, every hopeless want and desire. Primeval promises of security and progeny, primordial whispers of love. You made me worry needlessly about dreams that would never come true, and you're in the habit of making up false truths, spoken with such sincere insincerity as to almost be believed. I banked on you, invested in you—hear the pennies clink into the porcelain pig. But you're a sociopathic over-groomed pig with that lilting Southern drawl, unworthy of investment, or of broken heartstrings.
How could you utter lies with an unflinching face unless you yourself believe such waste?? Many nights I wondered where you were, where you might've been, and most of all why you weren't with me. Love is for lovers, not for fair-weather fans. Last night—important, you thought, for fairly unimportant reasons—you left me in order to go divide up dishes and forks and spoons with your exwife, allegedly long-gone but still with kitchen wear in your drawers and cabinet? I've groveled for your attention, hoped even in dreams to see you, to touch your skin, to feel the softness of your eyebrows under my fingertips, to hold your hand while falling asleep. I once buried my face into the shirts that you hung in my closet, hoping to forever remember the scent of your skin. But the shirts reeked of mildew, like old sponges rotting in sinks. You, ...., offered me the world and all its trappings, with no intention of giving me even a scrap from your plate. While I was happy, you were happy to have me; but when my true self bled through I became a petty inconvenience and as worthless to you as a dried-up whore. You're now motherless and fatherless, and heartless above all. Your father was a fugitive, and there's bad blood on the ... family tree. You're as trustworthy as an unlicensed veterinarian, as truthful as a petty thief.
And though I've had my heart broken so many times before, and spent so many nights staring into the dirty puddle of solitude, last night was different. The camel's back snapped and it writhes grotesquely on the desert floor. To you, I've always been less important than crusty utensils, less valuable than chipped saucers and plates. Upon your leaving, I groaned with sadness and then I felt everything heal over with scabs of disappointment. But I realized, with the snap of the dromedary's back, that I'm was too extraordinary, too beautiful, and too remarkable to be treated like such penetrable tearful trash.
The choices we make are the beds we lay in. Or else, we'd all be sleeping in featherbeds with French pillows, telling lies and making impossible promises, drinking bad liquor and smoking on porches and being ruthless, unthinking, and cruel. Like you,...., drinking whiskey with ginger ale, insisting on three limes and extra ice. Like you overbidding at auctions, grinning the grin of the greedy and rich.
The sound of your voice make me think think of mildew and forks caked with hardened egg yolks. Never has a drawl sounded so vile.
May everything terrible come back to you tenfold,
"Anna"
date almost sent: 10.5.08
How could you utter lies with an unflinching face unless you yourself believe such waste?? Many nights I wondered where you were, where you might've been, and most of all why you weren't with me. Love is for lovers, not for fair-weather fans. Last night—important, you thought, for fairly unimportant reasons—you left me in order to go divide up dishes and forks and spoons with your exwife, allegedly long-gone but still with kitchen wear in your drawers and cabinet? I've groveled for your attention, hoped even in dreams to see you, to touch your skin, to feel the softness of your eyebrows under my fingertips, to hold your hand while falling asleep. I once buried my face into the shirts that you hung in my closet, hoping to forever remember the scent of your skin. But the shirts reeked of mildew, like old sponges rotting in sinks. You, ...., offered me the world and all its trappings, with no intention of giving me even a scrap from your plate. While I was happy, you were happy to have me; but when my true self bled through I became a petty inconvenience and as worthless to you as a dried-up whore. You're now motherless and fatherless, and heartless above all. Your father was a fugitive, and there's bad blood on the ... family tree. You're as trustworthy as an unlicensed veterinarian, as truthful as a petty thief.
And though I've had my heart broken so many times before, and spent so many nights staring into the dirty puddle of solitude, last night was different. The camel's back snapped and it writhes grotesquely on the desert floor. To you, I've always been less important than crusty utensils, less valuable than chipped saucers and plates. Upon your leaving, I groaned with sadness and then I felt everything heal over with scabs of disappointment. But I realized, with the snap of the dromedary's back, that I'm was too extraordinary, too beautiful, and too remarkable to be treated like such penetrable tearful trash.
The choices we make are the beds we lay in. Or else, we'd all be sleeping in featherbeds with French pillows, telling lies and making impossible promises, drinking bad liquor and smoking on porches and being ruthless, unthinking, and cruel. Like you,...., drinking whiskey with ginger ale, insisting on three limes and extra ice. Like you overbidding at auctions, grinning the grin of the greedy and rich.
The sound of your voice make me think think of mildew and forks caked with hardened egg yolks. Never has a drawl sounded so vile.
May everything terrible come back to you tenfold,
"Anna"
date almost sent: 10.5.08
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
