| The Mexico Letter |
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| AKA- thoughts I had but shouldn't say, but need to say, so I'll say them here instead, in the form of a long, inoffensive, apostrophic letter. Also, various thoughts about Mexico and books and God and everything else in general. |
| Disclaimer: Keep in mind that A. these are just passing thoughts that I had during a week, and B. not all of these thoughts were originally meant to be publicized, but oh well. Screw it. The spaces in between lines usually indicate the changing of a thought, which means it was written at a different time. |
| (In the airport): I miss you. It feels like you should be here. I liked traveling with you. I prefer the European way of calling restrooms "toilets". You don't rest in them. You use the toilets. Why does God hate me so much? I miss England and Ireland and you. Can we go to the mill? You'd love it there. We'll stop in Ireland again. The woman up front (in the plane) is fat and frumpy with a hot pink hairtie around her wrist and a gurgling toddler in a striped jumpsuit. She keeps saying to him "Hang on, Muchacho." The baby is smiling like a crazy man and drooling on himself. I dislike children. He's laughing like a lunatic, I think he's high, or perhaps he knows something we don't. They give you the full can on Delta. This notebook is ugly, it'll have to be fixed. That baby, he followed me. I'm on a bus to my hotel and so is he. The woman's ponytail is lumpy and she has a lisp. They are from Vermont. She's whining about the car seat. "Do you know how to make it tight?" over and over, and "I had to pay extra and it seems like he should just be on my lap." She's being really bitchy to the poor driver. The baby is rambling. He's always giddyily happy. What a weird bird, like a crow with a long tail. A silver jeep, it's nice. So many scam artists! A man in a suit on a curb. So many white vans! My life is always full of coincidences but never the ones I want. Can life be like romance movies? Can it be if I try to make it? The baby's name is Atticus. Poor boy. The dad is Heath. Mexico is a shithole, but it's beautiful in it's shittyness. I like shit holes. I like disrepair. Half dilapidated shacks, half fancy resorts. Here we see a drawing, because I didn't have time to write about it as we were on the highway- It's a truck, a short stubby one and the bed just has a wooden fence thing around it. In the truckbed are three young Mexican men, a chest of drawers, and a vending machine. The only thing I agree with Swager on is that suicide is a selfish act (though I do think you still need to read the notice...). I'm not selfish, not like everyone seems to think I am. It's hard not to be sometimes, though. Day 1 I broke down, flipped out, spazed- I wanted to call you so bad, needed to, but I didn't feel like I could. I miss that. I need that closeness, that kind of relationship, the kind were "at least he cares about me, at least he loves me" can always be a comfort and I can call someone instead of crying in the shower. My dad's being such an ass...and there's no one left to understand me. I don't believe in fate or karma. If these were real, people should get what they deserve. I don't think I deserve what I get, sometimes. I don't think a lot of people do. I don't understand what I'm being punished for, or why I'm "being tested" as some people like to put it. God doesn't move in mysterious ways. He just plays favorites. I can't do much about getting what I deserve. I try for what I think I should be good enough for, but it doesn't always work...usually doesn't. I will work to give other people what they deserve. It's not my place to play God, but somebody has to do it. Maybe he's (He's) just a practical joker. A very insensitive one. "All in good fun, didn't mean to hurt anybody." I wish I could convince myself to think of it like that. On a medicine bottle, "directions" means "suggestions", right? I'm so sick, in so many ways. Every way a person can be sick, I am sick. Physically, mentally, emotionally, daresay spiritually...and several different ways in each of those. I feel like I need to be saved. I need a savior. Jesus doesn't count. Too impersonal. Until Jesus shows up at my door with a hug and reassurances, he can't help me. I believe that God exists in people. Therefore, if people are there for you, if you've been given a human savior (and for as long as you have one) then God is there for you, savioring like he supposedly does best. When you have no one, though...well I don't know much, but it sure doesn't seem like he's there, then. I loathe mockingbirds (the longtailed crows). "To kill a mockingbird." Oh you better bet I will. I've never read it but I hear it's about insanity. Ironic. Maybe I'm not the only one they've helped go insane. "Homo Lacrimans" - from Tin Drum, to mean teary person. |