I take requests.
Sorry about how abruptly it ends. iMovie was NOT being friendly that day.
Dear Glen Beck,
This traditional (ie Conservative), Christian gay.
- Current Location:New York, 12th Ave
If you've been reading these letters, then you already know that I'm doing them along with burningeden. She is very pushy, and forced me (against my will) to take on this daily writing challenge, never mind that I'm injured and on pain medication and am also generally quite busy. She's pushy like that.
- Current Location:New York, 10 Ave
burningeden is a far far better man than I. She made it (just) in time last night, while I was unable to post my daily letter. Nevermind that I was hobbled, my discolored and bruises ankle swaddled in ice packs, slowed by painkillers. No. Never you mind.
- Current Location:New York, W 34th St
Back in 1993 I was thirteen and was still roughly fifteen years away from fully embracing the role of anti-anxiety meds in my life. You were doing your star turn in Jurassic Park. My best friend and I had been thoroughly chastised by her parent for throwing popcorn during the movie, but in all honesty neither of us had any idea we were doing it; it was entirely impulsive and was mostly done as a way of keeping the little acid-spitting ones away from us.
In retrospect I'm not sure why we had to pee so desperately after the movie ended, since neither of us was capable of overcoming the paralysis of fear enough to actually drink any of our massive soda. I still don't know why you were hiding in the women's bathroom of Chelsea Clearview Cinemas on W. 23rd Street. All I know is that when you roared, I peed, and thanked God that I was already sitting on the toilet with my pants down.
Talya and her parent both seemed amused that I mistook a toilet flushing for a dinosaur, but I know it was you. Roaring in the end stall.
Just wanted you to know that I still think of you whenever I walk past that movie theatre.
- Current Location:New York, E 76st
- Current Mood:nostalgic
Letter writing taken on with burningeden
Dear Nancy Drew and the Hidden Staircase,
I don't like you.
I haven't liked you for a long time.
To be perfectly honest, I've hated you for over 25 years.
I'm 30 now but I'm still not over you, so I think it's only fair that I write you a letter to explain why I will never, under any circumstances, let you back into my life.
You were introduced into my life at a time when I was very impressionable. Carolyn Keene, my parents, Russell H. Tandy... they all could hold partial blame for the terror aflicted upon me. But each on their own would not have haunted my life the way you, Nancy Drew and the Hidden Staircase, did; it was you, the distillation and demonstration of myriad elements of anguish, that injured me.
I began reading at a very early age. My parents had to hide newspapers from me when I was 3, because they didn't want me to unwittingly read about the attrocities splashed across the front page. I was content with Maurice Sendak, Chris Van Arlsburg, Plaid Bear and the Rude Rabbit Gang, and many others.
And then you came along.
I dont' know if you were a gift from someone or if my parents brought you into my room. All I know is that one day you were there, with all of your friends. A phalanx of yellow and blue, all neatly arranged along my shelf. In retrospect I suppose that the intention was that we would meet years later, but you were so tempting... A ripe fig hanging in the tree of knowledge...
You know what happened next.
You know about the seductive way you lured a 4-year-old into your first chapter, promising tales of friendship and loving parents. Not caring that a young, impressionable child would not yet be able to understand concepts such as mystery, ghosts, and the kidnapping of a parent.
You know about the aftermath. How your cover haunted me. Your spine reached out in the dim glow of my nightlight, reminding me that terror existed and could assault a young girl at any moment. That damn yellow caught my eye every time, so that even when trying to pretend you were not there, I could not look away.
Yes, I made my parents move you from my room. You and all of your siblings.
But that wasn't enough for you, was it?
You couldn't just let it go, could you?
You mocked me from my sister's room, calling your evil siren song through the bathroom that joined our rooms together; I couldn't look up from my bed without your chilling spine glaring back at me.
Do I need to tell you how you haunted me even after I forced my parents to take you out of the apartment completely? Do I have to explain that even though you were no longer physically in my home, you had branded my fragile psyche forever?
I hope you're proud of yourself.
I hope you know I still hate you.
- Current Location:New York, W 34 St
Step 1: Put your iPod or whatever on random.
Step 2: Post the first few lines from the first 20 songs that play, no matter how embarrassing the song.
Step 3: Post and let everyone you know guess what song and artist the lines come from.
Step 4: Star (*) songs when someone guesses correctly.
Step 5: Looking them up on Google or any other search engine is CHEATING! The people who get them right first will be put next to the song they 'won'.
( lyrics to my lifeCollapse )