Dear Reader,
It's one of those days where everyone and everything hates you. (Not you, of course, but the universal, omnipotent you.) It's one of those days where you wake up and it's not because your alarm clock began to ring; it's because your alarm clock hates you and punched you in the gut, forcing you to roll out of bed and writhe on the floor in the fetal position. You crawl to the shower and turn it on, only to find that the water despises your existence as well. It miraculously manages to throw icicles that draw small beads of blood and scorching fireballs at the same time. After your unfortunate encounter with the shower, you try to put on clothes that you find have shrunk just to spite you and leave you with the impression that you haven't been to the gym enough (even though the gym is currently plotting to encourage as many people to attend when you come to work out so they can judge your jiggling, fat ass as you huff away on the treadmill).
You somehow manage to make it out of your building and run to class, only to find the class shuns you and leaves the only open seat right next to the open window during winter - because after all it's just too hot in the room for the window not to be open - or worse, next to the professor. The professor hates you too, so when you make comments during the discussions, they're "really interesting." Not good, not bad, or not building upon it any way, but "really interesting." After that failure, you go to your lecture class where that professor also would prefer you dead and decides to call on you to answer the hardest, most asinine question possible. Of course, you haven't done the reading because your syllabus hates you and decided to switch reading assignments on you today just to fuck with your head, so you make something up. The professor gives you that absolutely dreadful look and then says, "I don't think that's quite right; what's wrong with -----'s comment?" And then the entire class talks about why you're wrong and you just wish you could melt into the floor.
Then it's lunch: a time of the day where you'll be surrounded by people you like. Unfortunately, today they definitely do not like you. They don't ask you how your day is, what's new with you, or anything about your own life and when you ask about theirs, they answer with quick, concise answers that are devoid of all emotion. They then tell a much more elaborate, emotional answer to the friend who has just arrived at the table and asked the same question and you find yourself sitting silently, unsure of how to take this. If you say something that they think is stupid, they tell you that it's stupid (partly because you're close enough for them to say it without it being offensive and partly because it's offensive) with implications that you should probably never have been born. They don't want to get up to go with you to get food, they don't want to hang out later today, they just want to get through with their lunch so they can continue on their own day where, thankfully, you will not be.
It's now afternoon and your day is half-over and you have come to the realization that everyone really does hate you today. You have two options: 1. Try to continue with your day as much as possible, ignoring the fact that everyone would like to see you covered in pus-spewing sores. or 2. Curl up into a ball and sleep until tomorrow when hopefully you will be more appealing to everyone around you.
I am having one of those days and I'm currently making that decision.
Love,
Jake
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
A Letter to Prednisone
Dear corticosteroid,
At first, this seemed like a good idea to take you. It's not a good decision anymore. I've started hallucinating strange things, like glitter being projectile vomited from every hole in every body around me, both animate and inanimate. In addition, it now appears that you cause dry mouth which would probably explain why I think the inside of my mouth cracked right in half like desert rock eventually does when it gives into the intense heat. The mild sense of euphoria I received earlier seemed like a really good thing, but the crashing anxiety and mental confusion that now soak my air is beyond words. I just started screaming at a penny that lied face-down in the middle of my floor. You are a strange, strange drug, prednisone.
Apparently, if I take you for a long enough period and then stop taking you, I can go into what's called an Addisonian crisis, where I start convulsing, severely vomiting and diarrhea-ing (simultaneously at that), go into a fever, have a psychotic break, and then die. Now I'm terrified to quit you. On the other hand, if I keep taking you, it can lead to my face swelling, black stool (which apparently is a VERY bad thing to happen), become manic, become depressive, become psychotic, die, and even worse, gain weight. So I can't take you, but I can't not take you either. I should probably just hang myself with a pair of boxer briefs to just skip to the part where I die without becoming fat or leaking from all orifices.
In short, I'm not really sure what you're supposed to be doing for me. Lupus patients may be very happy to have you in their lives, but I am now within the liminal stages of existence. There is only with or without you, nowhere in between, and you have messed with my body too much. Get the fuck out of my life, you chalky, little bastard.
Love,
Jake
At first, this seemed like a good idea to take you. It's not a good decision anymore. I've started hallucinating strange things, like glitter being projectile vomited from every hole in every body around me, both animate and inanimate. In addition, it now appears that you cause dry mouth which would probably explain why I think the inside of my mouth cracked right in half like desert rock eventually does when it gives into the intense heat. The mild sense of euphoria I received earlier seemed like a really good thing, but the crashing anxiety and mental confusion that now soak my air is beyond words. I just started screaming at a penny that lied face-down in the middle of my floor. You are a strange, strange drug, prednisone.
Apparently, if I take you for a long enough period and then stop taking you, I can go into what's called an Addisonian crisis, where I start convulsing, severely vomiting and diarrhea-ing (simultaneously at that), go into a fever, have a psychotic break, and then die. Now I'm terrified to quit you. On the other hand, if I keep taking you, it can lead to my face swelling, black stool (which apparently is a VERY bad thing to happen), become manic, become depressive, become psychotic, die, and even worse, gain weight. So I can't take you, but I can't not take you either. I should probably just hang myself with a pair of boxer briefs to just skip to the part where I die without becoming fat or leaking from all orifices.
In short, I'm not really sure what you're supposed to be doing for me. Lupus patients may be very happy to have you in their lives, but I am now within the liminal stages of existence. There is only with or without you, nowhere in between, and you have messed with my body too much. Get the fuck out of my life, you chalky, little bastard.
Love,
Jake
Saturday, April 17, 2010
A Letter to My Husband
Dear future love of my life,
There are some things that I wanted you to know before we got started. I cannot promise to always be on time. In fact, there will be many times where I am late. I cannot promise that we'll be together every moment of every day. In fact, there will be many times where we will be separated from each other. I cannot promise to always be kind. In fact, there will be many times where I may be quite cruel. I cannot promise that we'll always be happy. In fact, there will be many times where we will be anything but. I cannot promise that I'll always want to talk. In fact, there will be many times where I will be filled with nothing but silence.
However.
I can promise you that even though I may be late, I will always be there. Through thick and through thin. I can promise you that even though we won't spend every moment together, there won't be five minutes that will go by without me thinking of you. And how lucky I am to have you. I can promise you that even though I may be cruel sometimes, I will always look out for your interests above my own. Because in the end, your interests are my own. I can promise you that even though we won't always be happy, I'll try my best to at least keep you laughing no matter what goes wrong. For there is nothing that pains me more than to see you hurt. I can promise that even though I may not always talk, I will always listen. In me, you will not only find an ear, but two directed to you.
Oh, and there is one more thing I can promise you. I can promise you that my love will never fade. I cannot wait to meet you.
Love,
Jake
P.S. I love you.
There are some things that I wanted you to know before we got started. I cannot promise to always be on time. In fact, there will be many times where I am late. I cannot promise that we'll be together every moment of every day. In fact, there will be many times where we will be separated from each other. I cannot promise to always be kind. In fact, there will be many times where I may be quite cruel. I cannot promise that we'll always be happy. In fact, there will be many times where we will be anything but. I cannot promise that I'll always want to talk. In fact, there will be many times where I will be filled with nothing but silence.
However.
I can promise you that even though I may be late, I will always be there. Through thick and through thin. I can promise you that even though we won't spend every moment together, there won't be five minutes that will go by without me thinking of you. And how lucky I am to have you. I can promise you that even though I may be cruel sometimes, I will always look out for your interests above my own. Because in the end, your interests are my own. I can promise you that even though we won't always be happy, I'll try my best to at least keep you laughing no matter what goes wrong. For there is nothing that pains me more than to see you hurt. I can promise that even though I may not always talk, I will always listen. In me, you will not only find an ear, but two directed to you.
Oh, and there is one more thing I can promise you. I can promise you that my love will never fade. I cannot wait to meet you.
Love,
Jake
P.S. I love you.
A Letter to Sarah Jessica Parker
Dear Sarah Jessica Parker,
You are scum. I am tired of seeing your face everywhere. You are not a good actress, your body is entirely too bony and your face looks like it got slammed in a door. I am also angry that you married Matthew Broderick. The star of Ferris Bueller's Day Off, The Lion King, and The Producers can and should do better than the two-bit lukewarm character of Sex and the City. But I digress, should we have a peek at your career?
Footloose - Probably slept with Herbert Ross to get that one.
Hocus Pocus - The only watchable role I have yet to see you in, but it might be because Bette Midler makes everyone look better.
Mars Attacks! - The one good point of the film: you switched bodies with a chihuahua. Good move.
Failure to Launch - You + Matthew McConaughey = Too much failure for one movie.
And the rest of your movies have not garnered enough box office success or publicity for me to even waste my time dealing with.
So you're one claim to fame is being possibly the most boring character on Sex and the City with the only possible exception being Miranda. Good. I look forward to vomiting when I will be dragged to see you in Did You Hear About the Morgans? I hate you and I hope you die. And reduce the amount of names you have. You don't deserve more than two like a normal person.
Love,
Jake
Friday, April 16, 2010
A Letter to Those Who Come Upon This Blog
Dear Reader,
If you have stumbled upon this blog, you have come across a place where there are no bars. I make no explanation for what is said and let each letter stand on its own. I guess I should hope that by reading them, you get something out of it. I don't know what that something might be, but that's not why I'm writing them. I don't really care if you get something out of them and neither do my letters. My letters don't like you and they don't pretend to do so. They are a form of written catharsis. These are all my thoughts directed at people throughout my day-to-day experiences. Each and every word not said aloud, but unleashed into this dark abyss known as the internet.
In addition, I ask for nothing and I seek nothing. Do what you will with these letters. Read them. Leave them. Shit on them and then send them in a box to your mother. It makes no difference. They will remain here, indifferent of your existence and even of my own. I have breathed something like life into them, and they will now flower and multiply, these rhododendrons of rhetoric.
I have waxed poetic, and I will now ramble into the future. Enjoy.
Love,
Jake
If you have stumbled upon this blog, you have come across a place where there are no bars. I make no explanation for what is said and let each letter stand on its own. I guess I should hope that by reading them, you get something out of it. I don't know what that something might be, but that's not why I'm writing them. I don't really care if you get something out of them and neither do my letters. My letters don't like you and they don't pretend to do so. They are a form of written catharsis. These are all my thoughts directed at people throughout my day-to-day experiences. Each and every word not said aloud, but unleashed into this dark abyss known as the internet.
In addition, I ask for nothing and I seek nothing. Do what you will with these letters. Read them. Leave them. Shit on them and then send them in a box to your mother. It makes no difference. They will remain here, indifferent of your existence and even of my own. I have breathed something like life into them, and they will now flower and multiply, these rhododendrons of rhetoric.
I have waxed poetic, and I will now ramble into the future. Enjoy.
Love,
Jake
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