Dearest,

i don't capitalize, but i aspire to be a writer.

i don't write, but i aspire to be a writer.



then there was the time i was sixteen - no, fifteen, and afraid i would never know what

life now

is

like.

future anterior.

it's odd writing freely, and openly, in a public forum. and yet, there lindsay and i sit, in local italian cafe, dipping our biscotti's into our milky lattes, and i urge her to be honest. that the greatest things i've ever produced, have been grotesquely honest. that people love that shit. eat it up. your insides. and to not hesitate, for a second, to vocalize the stuff you thought you were supposed to keep in your under things. it's why sex sells, and all stories have sad parts. "i'm telling you - people love honesty." but it's the fear of being googled, and the way your feelings can certainly feel raw, and come out in messy, incongruous, fragments.

i keep the heating in my room at an all time high, so i can walk around in my underwear.

i was raised in the most middle of ethnic grounds, in a non-conservative, islamic-layered, household. my mother put on a scarf when she prays, and lets me wear mini skirts when i go to my punk shows. and somehow this - this combination of veil, and punk, has come to summarize the totality of my supposedly unique existence. but i know there's a lot of others like you, now. this is digressing. this is for my other blog. but so that's a bit of me, that is in fact supposed to make up all of me. and then there's the part when i was fifteen, and i sat at home, in a sort of brown tween-prison. not at camp, like my white friends, or on vacation, like my white friends, or with other friends, like my white friends.

so i guess i was sort of lost.

and obsessed with kurt cobain at nine, because my older, hero, of an eighteen year old sister was. so that's a bit of me. i had about twelve different online forums to talk about my individual oppression. the way i was sure i would never understand or feel woody allen movies, and it's attached lives. what's a museum, and a latte, and a classic black dress, mean to a brown, grungey, 9 to 15 year old, anyway?

drinks with the girls.

i do this now.

girls.

i am one now.

and then there's the part where i sit in the dark and write about my, "feelings" certain, that what i'm really supposed to do is write Bossypants II. Or at the very least, the less critically acclaimed, prequel: Pushover Skirt.*

i told you i was sort of, kind of, maybe, funny. idiots.



*this freakishly summarizes my current age / stage in life, to a frustrating 20 year old, T.

thanks for your time.