My mom says I’m confused about the career paths I won’t choose, and in the last couple of weeks, I’ve been told I’m in the wrong field repeatedly. I no longer have a wardrobe, or outfits committed to a podcast or a sketch show, and I’m finally on the independent scene, but it’s for my own business, not film festivals. I watched a girl fix her hair and put on makeup on the GO bus. She no doubt had someone waiting for her at the last terminal. That would explain the flowers next to her atop the empty seat, and the constant smiles she gave to her screen every time her phone rang. I think that’s when it finally dawned on me; go ahead, cue her last voicemail:
You’re always talking about the future, and what roles we play in each other’s lives, but you don’t know anything. You don’t know where I fit in, or even if I fit in. You only think you do, or think that you want me to, but the truth is, you don’t know anything. You can’t just assume that you want to be with me, or that you could be with me, without so much as talking to me about it. You plan all these elaborate scenarios, and stories, but you don’t know anything beyond your own thoughts.
Who are you to define me? You think you know me so well? Just because we shared a bed, you think that you’re my best girl? You are though, I think that’s what I regret most; that I was given an open chance to turn “the only” into something special. Instead I hit on Hilarys, that’s code for girls who are out of my league, when they’re in love with Trevors (the brothas that actually be on TV), and Uncle Phil keeps throwing me out of the house so, I guess I’m living up to my namesake (finally). I was ripped in half by Megatron, defined an entire musical era in New Orleans, and I was Warner Bros.’ first talkie, and since then, I’ve never stopped talking; go ahead, cue his last text:
I like the art, but I don’t like the artist–that includes you Jas sitting on your high horse, thinking that it’s okay to keep writing nonsense, but never taking the time to ever explain your content–I’m not sure if it’s literal, or even metaphorical, or if this random she you speak of is even real or not. Who do you write for? Who do you talk to? Do the lack of hits ever seem to bother you? You’re surrounded by talent, and you’re the exception to the rule that this site couldn’t go on to exist without you. Do yourself a favor, and get lost from this paradox.
What would you rather see me writing? In three different languages, I’ve exhausted poetry. I want to go back to writing scripts about comic absurdity, but I’ve no longer got the laughs to justify what I once called wit, or a cast of colorful characters that would perform every last skit. I’ll soon be competing with my own territory, while still being lectured about my behavior, wondering if I ever really grew up, or if I’m still the same age as before I moved here, and became the designated driver. It’s like they’ve all forgotten all those parent-teacher conferences, of hearing that “your son is smart, but we can’t handle all of his creativeness,” though I guess it kind of makes some sense, that what worked in middle school won’t fly sitting in boardrooms, where they don’t want to see me stand up for anything other than PowerPoints; go ahead, cue their last email:
I had a great time with you, you’re the funniest dude I ever met, and the only guy I know who could balance work while making Seinfeld references. I didn’t know we had such an impact, I better be in your page of Thanks when you finally get published. I appreciate your knowledge, insight, and comic relief. Going forward, I wish you nothing but the best, and I hope that our paths soon cross again.