When I sent that clever short story I wrote from your perspective, FROM YOUR PERSPECTIVE DAVE, about the woman with the curly blonde hair who talked to herself at Dee's, DAVE, I thought it was nice that you had one of your lackeys at McSweeneys read it and send me the rejection letter. A nice put down, maybe playing hard to get, I don't know.
And then, DAVE, I sent you my 222 page manuscript, a brilliant tale about love and loss and how the nothingness three friends found on America's interstate system brought them closer than they ever thought possible, and I waited, and I waited, and I stayed up nights staring at my gmail inbox waiting for that magical (1) to appear next to the word 'inbox', and I waited, and finally, DAVE, I was in China for work, and I got another email from another lackey, this one sounded like at least he read the manuscript, or maybe McSweeney's has a bunch of form rejection letters to sort of personalize the horror of rejection for all of us sad pathetic lonely fucks.
But I was angry for months, DAVE, then I got over it. I couldn't stop thinking about you, DAVE, in a completely hetero way. If I wanted to have any sort of sex with you it was sex with all the wonderful sexy words you had written. Smitten with you, again, I was, Dave, but in a totally straight sort of way; it was your written words I wanted to smear all over my naked body like hot, lavender massage oil, and prance around the room, reading, inhaling the words, and inhaling your fine musk.
I saw the ad for your appearance in Pittsburgh a few weeks ago, DAVE, and I marked my calender with a big red hetero heart on October 29th. October 29th came and I put one of my favorite shirts on, actually, it was the one I thought you would like the most. Alot of people, you know, they, like, tell me this shirt is real nerdy, kind of annoying, but I thought it was something you'd appreciate. It was clean and smelled nice but was full of wrinkles, and made me think about how wrinkled the sheets would be after we spent an evening laying in bed together in a completely hetero way.
I arrived at the commons to find the parking garage was closed! Shit! It was 7:15pm! I circled the commons twice looking for a spot and only found one in a shady dark alley (The North Side is notorious for the smash and grab!) so I circled again and finally found street parking.
I threw the front door to the theater open at exactly 7:34pm, 4 minutes late, only to learn the show had sold out! Curses! Instantly waves of regret and fear and furious anger passed through my body and the scene from Falling Down when Michael Douglas shoots the rocket launcher underground and blows all that shit up went threw my head and I really wished I had a rocket launcher at that moment because I would have blown that fucker up but instead I just stood there and shook a little bit and probably looked a little stupid as a single tear ran down my face then I turned and ran into the night cursing you. By the time I got to my car I had composed myself and realized that everything happens for a REASON, DAVE.
Have a good life, Dave.
