26 May 2011

No Country for Old Marmots

Dear Sir or Madam;

Enclosed you will find my script entitled "No Country for Old Marmots," in which a young marmot mistakenly receives a cache of berries. He then crosses paths with a Mongolian hunter intent on catching and eating him and serving the berries to his pregnant wife, and in a series of increasingly hilarious antics, the hunter contracts pneumonic plague from the marmot. He then transmits the plague to his infant son, who dies from it, thus devastating the hunter's wife. The marmot, in a desperate attempt to escape the hunter, accidentally ships himself to America, where he is called a groundhog and is celebrated for seeing his shadow and lives a lavish lifestyle until the end of his days.

It is my sincerest expectation that you will be pleased by this story. If you have any questions, you may contact me further at (###) ###-#### or #########@#####.com. I wish you the best on your journey through life.

Sincerely,

X

20 May 2011

The Lost Thought I Never Thought to Loose

Your honor;

My amusing muse has long moved on and is now on the loose. Lost in the minefield of my mind, you roam about upending dressers and dressing up as an end to the means which mean nothing to me. Amused and bemused, confused by a muse long gone, the gonging in my heart is lounging but not for long. Is it wrong to hope that she returns? Turning the urn from mourning to moaning, groaning and throwing tantrums and fits, she'll flit about lighting up the corners of my bedroom, bedding the coroners of who visit the scene of my crime. "Who did this?" They'll ask of her, and she'll just grin seductively, an echo of the dreams I never dared to clean from the walls and halls. Swabs of dirt and grime and blood will line the plastic baggies destined to moulder forever in the forgotten drawers of the police station, wasting away, wasting their effort on pointless the task of piecing together the mess of my death. It's her, she did it, this is all her fault, but who can fault her in that dress? She dresses for success, and my how successful she is, succeeding the throne I'd thrown her from with such grace and disdain, deigning to reign my heart from the gutter where I cast her aside, trying to break my addiction to her fiction. She's fictional, you see, just a figment of my imagination, a destination for a nation, impatient and satiated, slaking her thirst on my veins. I'll never be rid of her, she'll haunt my days, flaying me from the inside. How can I display my pain? To admit her dominance is to give credence to her torment, and then she'll have won. Then she'll leave me alone, finally and forever. For never shall I want for another as long as she's by my side, haunting my bride.

Forever yours,

X

07 May 2011

Where Is Your God Now?

Dear father,

What have you done? It was hard enough on mommy dearest when she found out I would never produce the grandchildren she so sorely desired. A boon in the world of pornography, my taste for pussy has only ever horrified the woman who bore me in her womb for nine long months. As heartbreaking it is to a mother to learn that she has spawned a monster, imagine the sorrow of a mother whose monster will never know a chance to redeem itself in the evolutionary arena through its offspring.

But my dead-end genetics do not end hers, oh no. Big brother will provide. He has always followed the straight and narrow path, with his summa cum laude education and his fancy feast girlfriend. They'll provide the babies, while I'll provide the discordant counterpoint to highlight the bittersweet nature of their life. I'll be the scapegoat and black sheep, he'll be the golden child. My animalistic totems serve as the "other" to his humbling humanness. Certainly I've provided her enough pain for one lifetime, and she was never supposed to suffer like this again.

But you, daddy. You were no product of her labors, you shared the work with her. You built a life together, you were to stand by her in times of thick and thin (whatever that means) and support her in times of difficulty, like the time when I came out, for example. Now that all the chickens have left home to roost, she finds out it was all a lie. The shared delusion you created was always real to her, and you knew that. Who knew that it was a zero sum game in our family? Sexuality is the great equalizer. The imbalance I created by spurning the cock has righted itself by making things, once again, not right for mother.

So now she's moving out of the house you raised your children in together to start her life anew at an age which humans historically never lived long enough to see, and your boyfriend is moving in. No more hiding your secrets, no more will you live a double life. Finally you can join the LGBT activist group I told you about years ago not as a straight ally, but as a gay middle-aged man who has finally came clean with those he cares most about in life.

That must have been hard to do. Vilifying your inner urges for decades, fighting who you really are all for the sake of some artificially constructed social mores about who is allowed to love whom. Times were different when you were my age, people were jailed for such things back then. Suicide is still more common among us queers even today. Society has come a long way toward acceptance of us, and although much of the battle is still left to fight, the tide is with us now. It's just a matter of time, and it's becoming increasingly clear to the world. Now we find our older hidden constituents crawling out of the woodwork to join our swelling ranks.

I never expected that such a glorious march could leave such destruction in its wake. I thought we were doing the right thing. But how can something so right feel so wrong? I love my mother, I never wanted to hurt her, but I saw no other option at first. It was either hurt her or continue dying inside for the rest of my life. I feel the pain of your illusion from both inside and out, and no matter how many times I turn it over, I can find no way out. Your hard-earned wisdom has followed the advice of my youthful ideals, and my world has been carefully turned on its head.

Love and loathing,

your daughter

04 May 2011

Dear Heidi

Dear Heidi,
I am responding to your letter not to apologize or to delve into what a horrid beast I can be, but instead to express how dreadfully wrong your letter is.

You see Heidi, this beast I have spent years sculpting out of the fat lump of clay that formally bore the same name is both a wondrous and dangerous creature.  While it can soar to new heights it occasionally will reach new lows and sadly it will drag those near it down to these depths.  It is a beast that feeds on praise and adoration and will dance for the smallest amount.  I say this without a request for pity nor as an excuse, this is just how I have nurtured this beast, and it has gotten so accustomed to the taste that I see no way to wean it. 
Then again this is not about me.  This is about how very wrong you are.  Sadly my dear Heidi I am rarely able to express any admiration or praise for those I know and like.  Finding the words to express such things never seems to come further to my mind.  It is much easier for me to deal with the larger amount of people who I only care for on the level of a general communal feeling with my common man.  However there are a select few, who have gotten past my leathery exterior and burrowed into what poets would call my heart.  Now we both know that the heart is a simplistic muscled designed to pump fluid throughout a vast interconnected vascular system.  You are an unfortunate member of this club, whether you like it or not, you have paid your dues and at some point you get a t-shirt or a coffee mug... I am not sure, there is a committee working on the gift bag.
For me you are a great friend as you allow this beast to run free but when I need it most you interject a touch of rational thought into my world of impulse.  I also always thought I was the parasite in our relationship.  Exhausting your ear and draining your patience.  I would go into this further but everything I write feels sappy and I would hate to be the mosquito caught in my own here. 
So to close this Heidi, you are the sister I never wanted,  the one who consistently feeds this beast without allowing it to gorge itself.  For this I cannot thank you enough, and I assure you that in a time of real need you would be someone I turned to.

Signed,
Asshole