This is a copy of my break-up letter with the girl I've been dating for the past semester.

Dearest _______

I’m writing this letter in order to get my thoughts out and also to wish you the best of luck in your future relationships. I realize that I haven’t exactly been the most exciting and enjoyable person and that this is probably a big factor in our relationship not working out. However, and I don’t mean to start any shit here, I do believe that we both had our flaws, especially when it came to alcohol. I guess I was a little naïve when you first told me that you didn’t make a very good girlfriend, so it’s possible the whole thing was doomed from its inception. Yet I still think we both made a good run at making things work, and it’s too bad that everything didn’t work out as planned, but such is life, and it’s probably for the best that things ended when they did. I think that personally I’ve gained a lot from the whole situation and it will hopefully make me a better person. I hope that you share in this feeling and that you will soon find someone who can make you feel happy and make you laugh. As for myself, I’m actually rather glad to be back in the sea, so to speak, because it’s allowed for me to get back in touch with some old friends. I’d really like to remain friends, but only as long as there are no more incidents in which we decide to be anything more, because it’s just become too awkward afterwards and I’m ready to move on and begin something new. This is the first time I’ve done anything like this, so I hope that it doesn’t creep you out or offend you in anyway, and if it does please talk with me about it. I’m sorry for putting things so bluntly but I think writing out my feelings is much easier than explaining them.



I gave her the letter yesterday, and she called but I was too wrapped up in my emo music to hear the phone... but now I think it's time to start up the RATM, and move on.

I just sent out this letter to an ad agency that's looking for a junior marketer. It might get me a job, or It might get me an FBI file. We'll see.

Hey there.

My resume, while being a wonderful testament to how I've made rent over the last few years, is unfortunately rather dry (but oh, so informative). I though I'd give you an idea as to who I am before you trudge through that. Sound fair? Thought so.

I'm a writer, an editor a geek and a musician. I'm working on a novel that, the longer it takes and the older I get, is looking increasingly juvenile. That worries me. I'm an editor on, a website populated by information-obsessed word jockeys that want to archive the world, one bit of minutae at a time and I nudge them in the right direction in regards to grammar, literary convention and whatnot. I administrate my own website and am trying to figure out what exactly to do with all this webspace at my fingertips. I work excellently in Mac OS, competently in Linux/Unix and in Windows if necessary (not that I don't know Windows, it just makes my teeth hurt.) And...I'm currently writing a musical with my roommate. Yes, for fun.

That's what I do. Here's who I am: I'm a bit of a cynic without being jaded, and am happy-go-lucky most of the time, if a bit too realistic for some people's tastes while at the same time being a storyteller and a fabulist. Odd combo, know. I love people, can't live without 'em, really, and go slightly nuts if locked in a room by myself. I spend more time than normal in New Jersey visiting my parents as it gives me an excuse to get out of the city for a weekend. If I had the money I'd be in Washington D.C. bi-monthly, hangin' out at the Smithsonian and making friends/revisiting old ones in Georgetown. I smoke too much, but it's better than biting my nails. I indulge in cheap beer and expensive whiskey, and sometimes find myself watching the Food Network at 3am because I can't quite get to sleep. I'm not quite an insomniac but I'm getting there, mostly because my body really, really wants to be on a 28-hour schedule. Yours does too, just so you know - it's just that some people are better at regulating it than others.

I'm tired of having to choose between awful jobs that pay decently and awesome jobs that leave me destitute. I'm tired of trying to impress people so I can sit behind a desk all day. I'm tired of watching stupid people make something out of themselves while I stagnate, and I'm extremely tired trying to come across as calm, collected and centered when I haven't worked in close to two months.

I'm just...tired. And as an Ad-man, I'm about at prototypical as you could possibly get.

Hire me.

This new obsession is ever growing.... mailed out a money order today for an ebay-won copy of Diskomo 2000 (only 6.50 with shipping, somehow! Must be vastly easier to find than the rest of their material...). My copy of Duck Stab finally got here (16 bucks-ish on amazon marketplace) today as well... a number of unwitting victims have been exposed to portions or the entirety of Icky Flix since I bought it on Friday, and Meet the Residents has enjoyed heavy rotation in my car since its own purchase earlier last week...

I couldn't see any point, of course, in having my mother listen to that one. But she's always enjoyed early Beatles, so I at least had to show her the infamous cover...invoking some comment along the lines of "Paul got the worst of it."

Sometimes one of my co-workers gets into a few minutes' session of asking people who are around if they're familiar with any of this wonderful creative music....but still, even thirty-three years after the debut album, no one knows who the fuck they are. In more ways than one.

Correction. The man who owns the little music shop I went to seems to know a bit about their material, but well, I would hope so in that business. Not just the business of selling various forms of music, but in your own store, new and used, t-shirts, posters, stickers, buttons, the whole know the kind of place I speak of...the ones that locate themselves in some kind of strip mall, so the people you are with can wander into another store when they get bored with watching you look through everything and return an hour later asking if you're "almost done..."

I wish you could step back from that ledge my friend

Today marks the first time that music has profoundly affected my mood. KLLC is a radio station out of San Francisco that plays music from the 1990s forward. It's great because you can go from hearing an older Dave Matthews song to the newest release from Green Day. On my drive home today, Third Eye Blind's Jumper came on.

You could cut ties with all the lies that you've been living in

This brought back a lot of memories related to an ex-girlfriend. Jumper wasn't our song, but it probably should have been. We were both angry at life, mentally unstable, and we thought that since we had similar problems we'd be good for one another. We were wrong. Very wrong. She was a cutter, and I was so thin that some days I couldn't do the things I wanted to do.

And if you do not want to see me again I would understand

We both blamed ourselves for everything, and it became routine for us to bitch about our respective families, schoolwork, counseling sessions, etc. It was good to be able to vent to somebody that understood things. Counseling was necessary, but that didn't mean I had to like it, and she got that because she was there, too. I didn't want to eat, and she didn't always want to be alive. Our problems weren't exactly the same, but we could relate.

I would understand

I don't remember many specifics about the boyfriend-girlfriend aspect of our relationship, but I miss the girl I could vent with while we illegally drank the cheapest beer we could find and played Dr. Mario on my NES. I'm glad we broke up, but I wish we'd been able to stay friends. I could use a drinking buddy, and she could always use support. Today, for the first time in over a year, I wondered how she's doing and where she's at. I want to know what happened to her after we split up. I want to know she's okay. But most of all I want to bitch, drink cheap beer, and play Dr. Mario.

New York City shines less brightly now. Its glamour, its sophistication, its swankiness, its insouciance, its charm-- dimmed, as one of its stars goes out.

Rest in peace, Bobby Short, 1924-2005

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