Dear Modern Dance Imposter

1. AWESOME. Let's keep on not dealing with this and see what happens.

2. The thought of getting a menial job in New York City is about as appealing as crawling inside an Elk carcas and playing tackle football.

3. Boring people should be told more often that they are boring so they have time to change their ways.

4. T minus 2.5 weeks until the "rest of my life" wraps itself in a tacky package and stuffs itself underneath my Christmas tree.

5. "Couldn't Be Better" is the new "This Is Great" which used to be the new "I'm Having Fun".

6. Enjoy your fall.

I wore my good underwear for this?

John Cusack movies are not real life. Molly Ringwald movies are not real life. Hugh Grant movies are not real life. Julia Roberts movies are not real life (thank god). There will be no boomboxes playing special songs outside of bedroom windows, there will be no special kisses over surprise birthday cakes, there will be no standing-atop-the-table-in-the-restaurant-to-declare-something-importance, there will be no endings where anyone kisses Julia Roberts (thank god).

Real life is unnecessarily drawn out or pre-embeddable cut short without a discernible climax. Real life is not Boomboxes.

My mom says I'm something really special. My feet look a little orange, my room smells like heater and moldy fruit, and my eye sockets look like prunes.

I used to could stay up all night. I am too old now. I have lost control of most rational thinking and I pee every nine minutes like clockwork.

Let's do the dance again where one of us sits on the bed and one of us on the chair, and then we rotate 180 degrees but never occupy the same space at the same time. Let's talk about Coldplay and San Francisco and other important subjects. Let's not go to bed late, let's just talk about going to bed early. Let's play pretend. Just let's not play boomboxes.

You can't write a play about biting penises off and drowning the one you love in 20 pages. I just don't think it can be done.

I think I'll build a homemade canoe so that I can forge the waters that fill the ever increasing divide between the brain and the mouth. I'll paddle just like Pocahontas. I'll look once more, just around the river bend.

I split the sole of my foot open last night, and I have to dance in the big space on Thursday--the modern dancing--in front of people and I am not a dancer, and I wish there were more women around like Carol King, and I wish you would come back so I could say the right thing--A right thing, and I only have three weeks left in the nest and I'm not thinking about it, and bad beer can be just as good as good beer if you're tired and you close your eyes, and decidedly leopard print is not my print of choice, and I am over my fear of death by motorcycle, and I am so tired I could very well fall over on my way to the bathroom and just stay there but my bed seems so bitterly big for being so small and the coils have for the first time started to wage war on my back, and I have this memory of my father playing "Your Song" by Elton John on the piano--he was singing and crying and I wish I had been old enough to appreciate it for everything it was, and next time there is a Thanksgiving I know I have to be surrounded by McManus's playing cards and drinking and eating ambrosia salads and breaking out the family song books, and I like the wind from the fan and the noise it makes equally, and Emma and I have a pretty sweet thing going, and I think Tito Puente would be a really good name for a little dog, and I would like someone to build me a figurative cradle, and I should get to penpaling all the people I mentally penpal everyday, and Three Men and a Baby I think was probably a really good movie, and sometimes not talking is just as alright as talking or better, and the thing about people is that they are complicated and they don't become less complicated if you push them away, and the thing about movies about horses is that they make you cry, and the thing about sleepless talks is that they make you cry if you're me, and the thing about Rod Stewart is that he'll make you cry if you stop thinking about it and just focus on the feeling of being "forever young", and the thing about now is now is the time for bad bed coils and unending dreams of world war three, like it or not. Because there are plays about oral castration to be written and girl friendships to be emblazoned and peeing to be done and bad thoughts not to believe and memories to be, how do you say, made.

Making memories in secret underpants.

It Snowed in Seattle This Sunday

In the end, we will put our tennis rackets down, and march so proudly off the court...

I need a Thanksgiving from my Thanksgiving.

I will never live in a house with fluorescant lighting.

Panic.

Need a Thanksgiving.

Dear Florida

I remember you.

Disneyworld. A rip off. A long plane ride. A Whoppi Goldberg movie about being a man. Grilled cheese sandwiches with onions and tomatoes. The incomprable gift shop. Zorro. Italian restaraunts in conveniant alleys. Beautiful women wrapped up in the drapperies, not yet ready to come out. Getting stung by bad jellyfish in a premature scantily-clad butterfly bikini. It was the first time--it was the last time. Thinking the beach was for old people just as much as it was for young people in tiny things. Buying pink shirts in cool shops where I left my family and acted like I really finally knew what I was doing on my own. Listening to a Discman with a soundtrack that dictated all actions, and all moments, including the one from the hotel to Dsney-univerese, when I looked out and saw beyond everything into the season and how much my parents were paying. I remember how important the waterslides felt over the anxiety attacks my mother had. And I saw where the Golden Girls lived. And I wore authentic shell necklaces. And I fell asleep with stuffed animals because I was then so easy to please. And I listened only to:


The Romeo and Juliet Soundtrack
Jewel, Peices of You.

And I thought I was grown up. But I was not yet. I was still 13.

Funny that I'm still not grown up. and it has been a decade. Haven't been to Florida since that one time that changed my life. But you know, Jewel was never that great a singer anyway...Except that one time...when I was invincible...