Tuesday December 11th 2007, 1:32 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

Dearest One,

Tonight’s conclusion: Fuck you. Oh wait, should I be more philosophical, more poetic for you? Ok, I’ll try– bitch. For whom heaven has cast out, for those where love is no longer life, for that which has seeped through the purest of hearts and the thickest of shields, there is you. You are a black feather on a white dove, a shadow in the valleys of sun, a tarnished stain on the chapel’s walls. DO YOU NOT SEE YOUR OWN DISGUST? Can you not feel the darkness that surrounds you? How can a speck of rust corrode a fine metal? A metal so pure that god herself can see her reflection in its shimmer. Are you a happy demon? Does destruction bring you gratification? Blessed by the horns of Lucifer art thou, and praise thee winged lover of death, as there is no other glorification you shall receive in this journal. The chaos you bring under your tarnished feathers of doom is that which brings my body to its knees. You are the destroyer of goodness; you are the temptation of that which is holy- my being. For your grace, I do not give thee praise, yet I allow you to consume my light, digesting its photons to produce and reproduce darkness – you are the machine which destroys goodness. And yet you call yourself a mortal woman? How can it be, a mortal such as yourself, has the power to convince my love of anything other than its original intention: truth, honesty, joy, laughter and kindness. You make this man, I, a being of light, turn to the shadows. My face cracks and the monster protrudes in your presence. To this day, even at this hour, god’s hour, the thought of you turns this scientist into a lunatic, a maniac of sorts that thrives on death and destruction. You are the poison in the well; you are the vile transformation I have become – a mirror for hate and despair. And yet, you are still my wife, my bond in “holy matrimony” and my official lover. Does this not make sense? Do you see the irony in this dualistic connection? Of course! Everything is coming together now, as the puzzle pieces snap oh so gently into one another. I cannot be the light without your darkness as my shadow. I cannot love without the hate I’ve built for you. The day will not rise if the moon never sets. So set then, you black heart. Fill me with the power to move beyond your void, so that I may shine rays of peace and love to my neighbors. Will you not do me this favor I ask? Can you not accept this truce? I beg of you, die already. Bury your disgrace in a mountain, so that I may rise over the ocean.

-Your Stupid Saint.

Thursday May 03rd 2007, 11:55 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

To formal friends,

Oh how my suspicions run high when you tell me things like “I went to the doctors yesterday” or “I’m hanging out with my new friend tonight.” I can’t help but to picture you getting on with your life, replacing your memories of us with with new and possibly better memories. Why did you go to the doctor’s office? Was it a check up? Did you think you were pregnant? You hate the doctors, so why, on this specific occasion, did you feel the need to go? Fuck, I need to let go of this. It’s time to stop these ridiculous tormenting thoughts. Foreboding uncertainties plague me with endless answers. All imagined responses only lead me deeper into the depths of depression. Every time you call and let me know that you are doing well, I sink further into a depressive state of solitude. Los Angeles is beginning to dissipate as a wonderful relief from the hard times I experienced in San Francisco because of your current updates of the fantastic life you are now leading. Fuck you for regenerating so quickly. Even though I have contempt for your happiness, I still feel love for you. Why is this? Why can’t I get away from these lingering nostalgic and warm feelings for you? Am I dwelling on a past that only exists in my head? My logic proceeds to explain to me that you are not my memory of you, as we are not the memories we remember reality to be. History is as fluid and transformative as the imagination can allow. Therefore, you, I, you and I, are only constructs in my head, which consume me as a work of fiction consumes its reader. Our story, told by our memories, is a context and validates itself within the individual. But most fictional stories only relay morals and examples; they are metaphors for instances which can never be fully documented without constraints, rules and frames. In our case, my memories are filtered by my perception, in fact, double filtered from the point of remembering, to the point of recollection of those memories. This sense of post-modern logic brings me further from any sense of truth (the ultimate the ultimate goal of history) and sends me down into the depths of falsity. The only truth to the memories is that they exist as fluid devices of the self, thus creating the formula that ultimately answers with a lie… I’ve lost my train of thought, dear wife, which goes to show that thought and memory are only temporal devices to propagate the human mind further into the universal beast’s mouth– the mouth and belly of history. To deny history its feed or to take away the main curse in which history devours, is to starve and kill reality altogether. Death can’t even escape the jaws of history. The re-appropriation of molecules continue to feed the beast and the beast feeds the moment. And that’s the cyclical nature of time. The moment eats history; history poops out the moment. And the future, well, the future is a cookbook of recipes in which reality has to make, bake, fry, or boil that which is to come.


Friday April 20th 2007, 3:02 am
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

To the midnight mania,

It was burlesque Goth night at Miss Kitty’s palace of pleasure. Bjorn invited the whole gang to come out and experience this dark and devious establishment. When we arrived at the palace, which looked nothing like the title suggested, Jon and Arturo pulled out their bag of mushrooms and engorged in a magical trip full of psychotropic wonder. Since I was driving that night, I declined to indulge in the pleasures of hallucination, however my plan was to enjoy the dance floor with a few drinks in me. Inside the palace was a complete surprise to me, considering the walls of the palace; videos of men fucking other men, women sucking men off and women sucking women off filled my visual frame. I couldn’t help but to feel stimulated by such erotic imagery. I began to realize how long it had been since I’ve got laid, and the reasons why I have not, as of late, had that kind of physical pleasure in my life. And of course, I then thought of you. You were to be my eternal source of pleasure, not just physical pleasure, but mental and spiritual pleasure as well. You being my partner, I meant that you were the other half of me that could give me what I needed to continue life as a fulfilled individual. But as we both know, these were mere fantasies of thought when juxtaposed next to the truth and history of our marriage. I wanted your pleasure, yes. However, at the time, I was uncertain about certain things: you wanting to please me, your need for pleasure yourself, the delicate balance between pleasure and comfort and my ability to accept such pleasurable states of being from you. The more I think about our pleasure dynamics, the more curious I get about how blinded by pleasure I must have been to not see these uncertainties as a flaw in our system of love. We were flawed Mindy; I’ll be the first one to admit this fact. But these moments of imperfection were natural and normal; they were to be expected. No system is flawless. However, every system has ways of operation that convert flaws and blemishs into desired beauty marks. These conversions are not easily accessible and individuals have to work out the details of the equations, but once a formula is set, any problem can be solved. Jeez, I sound like the geek that I am. It’s no wonder why you dumped me. And yes, that is how I perceive our break up. You threw me out of the apartment because I wrote a letter that said you are an emotional coward and that I didn’t marry out of love. Those inebriated lies got me kicked out, broken hearted and numb to the world. All senses of pleasure have ceased to exist for me. Not even Ms. Kitty’s palace of pleasure can cheer me up. I am a sad, numb, lonely boy, trying to reestablish some sort of pleasure-factor in my life. And even though my heart is still with you, my mind hates you. Logistically, I’m jealous of your ability to regain your sense of pleasure so quickly after our break up. The unfathomable intrigues me, and therefore I torment myself by answering your calls, questioning what you’ve been up to and how you’ve been feeling. And even though I can predict the general sense of your response to my mundane questions, it still shocks and hurts to hear how well you are doing. As time goes by, I become more lonely and depressed; my pleasure system is malfunctioning, just like the way our marriage malfunctioned– it’s falling apart from the inside out while the seams still stay attached, until the very end, when there’s nothing left inside to hold myself together.

-The seamstress

Wednesday April 18th 2007, 1:20 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

To my schizophrenic disgust,

After thinking about my love for you, a wave of frenzy and anxiety grabbed hold of my thoughts and those feelings, once lovely and kind, turned into disgust and jealousy. We spoke on the phone today for approximately forty-five minutes. The spectrum of conversation ranged from family politics to contemporary this-and-that’s. But most notably, we discussed whether or not either of us had been dating. My response to your question was “no” which is the truth for the most part (if I exclude the one instance of oral sex and the kiss from Lola). However, when I asked you the same question, “Have you been seeing anyone?” you gave me a vague reply of “Not really.” You then furthered my suspicions of your lone interests by stating that you still have a hard time being alone, and that this was something you were going to work on. What kind of bullshit statement is that? You know damn well that you’re never going to give solitude a chance to allow yourself the opportunity to contemplate. You spend your time with other people, and fuck them if you have to, so that you can sponge your way through life, never giving the moment a chance to reflect upon itself. If you didn’t have your profession, I’d go as far as saying your mental capabilities for dialectical thought and post-moment consideration are nonexistent because of your infatuation with another person’s presence. The reason you fear loneliness is because you bore yourself with your own monologue. However, your one saving grace is that you have a wonderful cognitive database for veterinary practices, and therefore I know your mind is not always mush. I’m feeling jealous right now because of one phrase you told me over the phone. You said you had been hanging out a lot with your mathematician friend Chris. First of all, he has the same name as me, and therefore I have a prejudice towards him for this reason. Secondly, how dare you replace one Chris for another Chris? Am I a swappable item that needed an update feature? Maybe he has better features than I do, like a nicer nose or a bigger brain. For whatever reason, I don’t like the guy, and I especially don’t like hearing about you not being able to be alone, or about you always hanging with your friend Chris. The quality of our conversation began to decline after you revealed to me your friendship with Chris, as I found myself wanting to get off the phone with you. Although I was superficially pleasant to you when we said our goodbyes, a rage of energy was racing through my body, as I could feel the deeper psychological implications this knowledge had done to me. My first inclination is to go to the liquor store and buy a bottle of sauce to drown my anxiety. However, it is mid-day and I would feel even worse if I chose to enact upon this desire of escapism. Most likely I will go with my second impulse, which is to escape through dreams. I am going to go lie down for a nap to hopefully calm myself down. I hope you and Chris are happy when you are together, and sad when you are apart. Hey, at least it’s better than the reverse of taht statement, which is how you and I exist.

— Anxiety.

Tuesday January 30th 2007, 11:45 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters,Love Letters

To my Friday night phone call,

I was at work, designing websites for some friends of mine, when you decided to call me. There didn’t seem to be any real purpose to your call, except to maybe check in on me to find out whether or not I was behaving myself. You spoke of your mundane life and about how much you disliked your job. They have been making you cover your sick associates’ schedules because of their lack of techs on the job. You seemed to have such disdain for your current employment situation. I asked you if you planned on staying with your current employer and you told me “You don’t know me at all. Of course I won’t. I’ll burn out in six months and quit this job like I always do.” I wanted to tell you how I had no job prospects in Los Angeles and how jealous I was that you had a stable source of income. I don’t understand how you could want to ruin such a good employment situation – especially if you are paying such high rent for our old apartment. I wish I had the knowledge you had in terms of being a vet tech. Your job is an awesome opportunity to make a decent living, while earning desirable wages. However, I bit my tongue, as I have frequently in the past, and didn’t delve into a counter argument. I feel as if I have to conceal parts of my thoughts in order to sustain a “friendly” nature to our relationship. But by hiding my thoughts, I am repressing a part of my being that I find to be one of my best features – my wit and immediate comprehension of the surrounding elements of situations. This overt and covert repression negates a part of me that you once immensely loved. We can never go back to our long lost love if I continue to repress my coherence. The good part about this is that you never want to return to the warm loving understanding we once shared, and so you most likely enjoy my vocal repression because it allows you to dominate the dynamics of our current communication. You enjoy having power over your past lovers; I fear that I am allowing you this space to exist within your own enjoyment. Fuck! I guess you can consider me a carnival ride, ready for you to get on and be happy, while my mechanics are breaking down with each and every fare. I hope that someday you will tire of my ride, and will abandon me like how most amusement parks that go out of business. I wish I weren’t as nice a person as I truly am. I wish I could be an evildoer like some men I come across in my life. If only I could be snobbish and uncivil, discourteous and insolent to you, then you wouldn’t feel the need to call me, expecting me to respect you. Oh how I wish my mother never taught me manners; at least then I could feel retribution for the pain and suffering you have caused me. You truly are blind to the torment our break-up has put me through. I’m not moving because my friends are in Los Angeles, I’m moving because I’d kill myself if I had to stay in the same city as you. I’ve come to terms with my own self-destruction and in a dramatic maneuver I am trying to propagate my own survival. But these are things I can never tell you in our conversations. I doubt you’d listen to my cries anyway.

-Your Friday night answer.

Monday January 29th 2007, 9:51 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

To the hickey on your neck,

Dear bitch, I’ve made it to Los Angeles! The Phoenix is reborn! But do you care about my reincarnation? Fuck no you don’t, you selfish person. Tonight, after my arrival into this vortex of a town, I once again viewed your Myspace account. Low and behold, to my disapproval and contempt, you had posted a photo of yourself with a bright and shinny hickey on your neck. Let me first tell you how disgusted I am by your public display of your scandalous engagements. Why the fuck must you publicize your fallen physical repercussions? Do you find it sexy to narcissistically view your image of shame? Does it please your senses to use the internet as a mirror for your scandals? Why must you embellish your sex life with such vivid documentation? Well, in response to your actions, I can respond to you with a whole-hearted “Fuck off!” Let me tell you how the last hour of my car ride to Los Angeles went: I couldn’t read the exit signs because my eyes were burning from the swelling of tears. I cried for an hour straight; and let me tell you, it’s no easy task to cry while driving a car full of boxes – boxes which represent the turmoil my life is in at this present moment. All I could think about was my own defeat, represented by the loss of your love. However, I felt good emotions towards you, even though I could only criticize my own impotent actions towards our situation. I felt like a looser, someone who doesn’t deserve any more chances at neither happiness nor success in life. On several occasions my muscles flinched, contracting my hands, which made me swerve my car. I almost died because of the self-loathing that I could not surpass during that last hour of my drive Once I finally reached my destination, I came to the conclusion that things were going to get better, and that you and I were not a failure, yet an ever-progressing germination of the process of our love and understanding – the good times and the horrible times are part of the whole which constitutes our essence. Except I now have a new understanding of our essence, post-hickey photo: you are a hateful person and a fallen woman who doesn’t have the decency to be monogamist, or to seve me with divorce papers before you go and make out (or make-love) to other people. Again, my rage and hate for your being has swelled and I can only think about how much I loath your existence. On the other side of all this, I am now currently 400 miles away from you and no longer have to be in your physical presence. The streets out front are not the streets of San Francisco, which I would be wandering right now if I were there. Instead, I have good friends around me and therefore I am going to work through this rage in a healthy manner. Furthermore, I’d like to remind you of your lascivious yet fallen ways, by continuing to write to you as I have in the past.

-The rage inside me.

Tuesday January 23rd 2007, 12:33 pm
Filed under: Hate Letters,Love Letters

To your ex-fiancé vicariously through you.

In our previous conversation, I questioned whether or not I would see the security deposit for our old apartment safely returned to my bank account. Your response was quick, saying “Maybe, if you stop squirting my friends with squirt guns.” To this, I countered your request with a bowed head and a devious smile. And even though I have no plans to blast your friends with my water guns, the thought of spraying all your friends whom I loathed brought pleasure to my mind. You then told me that if I had squirted your ex-fiancé Justin at his work, he would have jumped over the counter and kicked my ass. HA! That piece of shit dweeb you call a lover? He couldn’t get near enough to my ass to pat it, let alone destroy it. If he ever tried to be violent or physical with me, I’d destroy every living essence in his self-loathing body. This wisp of a man you call your best friend has been an enemy of mine ever since he and I met each other in San Jose. Our first introductions were quaint, yet developed underlying tones of jealousy and aggression: his words to you when he found out about our marriage was “I’ll help you sign the divorce papers”. Fuck him for such terrible benedictions. After you and I separated, he was the first person you fucked. Fuck you for that. And now, the man-child feels the need to affirm his manliness by convincing you of his reactive predictions toward me squirting him with a squirt gun. And worse, you believe in his power over me. I suppose this shows how powerless you are in Justin’s disturbingly grotesque web. Justin is a hack of a human, designed to pity himself for eternity, and you give him the pity he cries for. Why? Doesn’t his disgusting abhorrence get old after awhile? The only credit I will give the boy is that he is a talented musician. But besides his musical talents, he has nothing going for him. His wit is acute, but only wrestles with its own self-loathing to ever amount to genius. His physical features remind me of a twig with spectacles, and his prospects for a progressive future are shallow and vain. The man is a callow individual that I would never want as a friend. There’s a lot to say about a person by definition through the caliber of his enemies. Therefore, I’d be doing myself a favor not to hold this grudge towards such a lousy opponent. It is undignified to hate one who has no dignity. However, let me state this as clearly as possible: if Justin ever tried to lay a finger on me, he would experience a pain so unholy, he’ll have to have an exorcism performed on his remains just so he could have a proper Catholic burial. Sometimes I wish for such an opportunity to unleash my demons into this physical world through physical violence. However, I usually find other avenues to fulfill these evil thoughts into physical fruitions. So, if you would dear wife, let your best friend know that if he were to reach over the counter to countervail my squirt, he would regret his ever meeting me so many months ago. I thank you for relaying this honest message.

(p.s. in retrospect to re-reading this letter, I do not wish any harm to you or your friend. this letter was an outlet for my anger at the time when I wrote it.)

Sunday October 22nd 2006, 6:56 am
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters,Love Letters

To the Good,

Yesterday I came over to your apartment so that I could sign over the pink slip to the car, as well as borrow the car for the evening. I had to move my things from San Francisco. We were quite pleasant with one another, which wasn’t surprising. There’s a large part of me that wants to be your friend, as you can tell by how eager I am to have a decent conversation with you. I want to hug you, hold you physically like the way I hold you in my heart. Our cat was very friendly with me, however I doubt she remembers that I was the one who cuddled and loved her as a kitten. Your Apartment looks wonderful, and I can only hope that someday I will land on my feet like you have. Your new haircut looked nice, but was cut pretty short for my tastes. However, when I first met you, your hair was three times shorter than it is now, and I still found a way to fall in love with you. We talked about the security deposit and said you would try to pay me back if I stopped shooting your friends with squirt guns. I laughed over this sardonic comment, but you didn’t think it was very funny. We shared a brief hug on my arrival to the apartment, but didn’t even wave goodbye on my departure.

To the Evil,

There’s a part of me that wants nothing to do with you. I want to cut you loose and never cross your path again. When I become nostalgic for your affection, I immediately and subsequently fill with anger, passionately wishing for your demise. I don’t want you to be so content with your life. Your new Apartment articles make me jealous of your new life. There’s no way I can cope with these raw guttural emotions that swell when I’m in your presence. I have to bite my lip and continue on with logistical (un)developments in our marriage. You said you would pay for the divorce papers because I am too poor to pay for them myself. You’re so adamant on our separation. Fucking take it easy. I’m fragile still, unlike you and your hardened outer core. And I know you’re fucking new men these days, which only makes me sad because I haven’t fucked anyone since you. The Apartment has become totally yours, which pisses me off because my name is still on the lease. I don’t think I will give you my new address in Los Angeles, just so you won’t be able to send me the divorce papers. It’d be nice to fuck with you for a while, at least until I get on my feet and find a job. Just to spite you, I won’t fail when I return to Los Angeles.

-My Ego

Friday October 20th 2006, 4:40 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

Fuck you.

I called you today and you told me you would call me back because you were … “doing stuff.” You sounded so guilty. What exactly were you doing? And whom were you doing it with? Why the fuck did you even answer the phone if you were busy “doing stuff.” Maybe you were on drugs with your friends? Who knows? All I know is that I wanted to borrow the car so that I could take some boxes to Sacramento today, and you’re too busy “doing” something to appreciate me trying to get my life together. Even though moving boxes isn’t really me getting my life together, considering that I just woke up, have a hangover and have to clean the mess I made in my room last night. I came home plastered. After work last night I stepped into the local bar around the corner from Robert’s house. Betty, the beautiful bar tender, who doubles as a mother, was working last night. I sat down at the bar and told Betty, “I have nine dollars. Get me as drunk as you can for that.” She looked at me and laughed, grabbing the Jamison and Bailey’s from the shelf. She mixed together two shots of her delicious concoction and poured me a Stella back. I offered to pay her the 9 dollars but she refused my monetary trade. I was surprised by her generosity—most bars and bartenders aren’t as kind as Betty. It’s too bad she was double my age (I think her daughter is my age); Otherwise I would try to date the woman. It’s a shame that kindness and alcohol can lead to sexual desire. This is why so many female bartenders get hit on. If they smile back at a drunk patron, they are immediately seen as a sex object. When Betty closed the bar, she and I walked across the street to another bar to see if it was open – if so we were going to share a drink together. But the bar was closed and so Betty and I parted ways. I didn’t need another drink anyway. I stumbled home, barely making it to the front door. In fact I slammed my head on the front door while trying to get the key to fit in the hole. The stairway seemed taller than ever as I cautiously maneuvered from step to step. When I made it down the stairs, I let out a sigh of relief into the hallway by my bedroom, I was almost there, I thought. When I stepped inside my bedroom, I put down my backpack and stumbled into the window, knocking over a drum and a cup of change I had been collecting. I crashed into the blinds, which made a loud noise, and fell over onto the floor. After this fall I crawled to my bed to pass out. And this is why I have clean my room today. Whatever. This doesn’t diminish the fact that you’re I don’t have any good thoughts about you right now. Don’t be ambiguous with me over the phone. It just makes me hurt even more.

-Fuck You.

Wednesday October 18th 2006, 6:57 am
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

To Saturday,

With a thumping chest and trembling hands, I got the nerve to call you. Surprisingly you answered the phone (I hoped that you would just let the voicemail pick up). Your “hello” was pleasant, as was mine. I told you of my plans for leaving San Francisco in exactly one week and you responded with a shocking “for Good?!” “Yes, for good” I stated. I then went into the reason for calling you. I want some of my movies back as well as my coffee maker. There are a few documentaries on artists that I wish to take with me to Los Angeles, and well, you bought a new coffee maker, so you won’t need my old one. I told you that Monday would be a good day to meet up, half expecting you to schedule a chaperone for our encounter. I still sensed a bit of animosity in you, but I didn’t react towards your tone of voice. You told me that Monday afternoon would tentatively be a good time for you, and that we could meet up for coffee. I joked about meeting in the morning at 8 AM, and you responded with a “Let’s make it 6 AM.” I countered your sarcasm with “we could catch a sun-rise”, and you replied, “Fuck that!” However, by the tone in your voice, I can only assume what you really meant to say was “fuck you.” You haven’t given the car to Justin’s parents yet because you “wanted to run it through a car wash first.” I doubt you will ever get rid of that car. It reminds you of Justin’s grandfather, and thus the Love you had for Justin and his family. I think it’s safe to say you’re attached to that motor vehicle. It’s too bad my name is still on the pink slip, but I’m sure we’ll take care of that on Monday. Besides the pre-phone call emotions, our conversation was banal and mundane. You and I don’t make jokes or laugh together. It’s sad for me to analyze our conversations to the point of banality, but it’s the honest truth. You told me you went to San Jose yesterday, but didn’t explain why. Most likely you were visiting your Love, Justin. Maybe you two were made for each other? After all, you two have a lot in common. You both are content with normality and banality. And you both now have a common enemy. Justin and you were together for almost five years. You were engaged for six months before you convinced him to break up with you. Then, when you and I developed into the love we had, Justin waned in the shadows of jealousy, hoping you and I were doomed to perish. Well, it looks like things have finally worked in his favor. You and I are a dead memory while you and Justin are now rekindled lovers. I remember the first time I met Justin. I didn’t like his curt attitude towards you and me. He’s actually a prick. But, it’s your life, and your decision. It’s your decision who you love and who you don’t love. I knew he would return in your life as a lover. I just knew it. Because of this he has never been a friend to me. I really dislike that man—your best friend, your new-old lover.