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Dear San Diego ... Where Did You Go

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There was a Dear San Diego posted around the time late April or early May of last year. Reading it absolutely split me in half. It had become a catalyst for the rebuilding of my life. I had wanted to revisit that work so that I may see where I was at then, so that I may assess where I am at now.


The new website does not have Dear San Diego published. Nor have I been able to find them here. Does anybody know where I can find them.

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Three Years

May 28, 2010




Dear San Diego,


I’ve been here for a while now. I’ve been sleeping on a couch for the last, well, three years. I drink way more than I used to and the only place in town to do it is at a strip club on the highway whose giant neon sign keeps me up nights. I’m the world’s most overqualified, overeducated movie usher. Things could be worse.


Parker got new meds a while back, maybe four months ago, haven’t written anything about it, wasn’t sure how it’d turn out or if she’d stay on them. She’s missed a few days here and there but for the most part she’s a lot better, more predictable I guess. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not in her case, but at least she can sleep now, at least there aren’t towers of old newspapers in her room. But I don’t know, there aren’t any equations on the fridge now either.


Life’s in a hurry, even when you’re hiding, even when you can’t remember what it is you’re hiding from anymore. Probably just yourself. You never admit it, you spin it in your head and in your guts, you stare cross eyed into the bottom of empty glasses and tell yourself that there isn’t anything to worry about. But even here, where nothing ever happens, where the world seems a distant planet, it’s still true. Maybe there’s nothing more loathsome than yourself, but trying to convince yourself otherwise is a waste of time. Funny though, giving into it’s a waste of time too. Living with it’s going to be your days and nights. And unless you step in front of a train the only thing you’ve got to do in this life is come to terms with that.


Sometimes I can feel the snakes in my stomach. Sometimes they talk to me. At night when I’m half me, when I’m not really here, when what was comes calling and I forget that sometimes it’s better not to answer the door, I remember the life I used to lead, the person I used to be, but always make the mistake of never admitting that while I may have gotten myself lost, finding things haunts everyone until their last breath. And, you know, I’ve been wondering if in that moment you do. Or if it’s just the exhausted exhale of having spent a life looking.

Edited by uglyredhonda
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