Dear Steele: I often have to remind myself you were a real person. Sometimes you feel like a dream, like a fantasy I got to try out, to try on. I want to write a story about Mr. Good Enough. He knocked on my door and I didn’t answer. I didn’t have faith. I was too busy looking for Mr. Right, someone to balance out on the scale with Prince Charming.
I am mad at life: damn you for filling me with so many fairytales, having me wait desperately to be rescued by that whore Prince Charming who slept with Snow White, Cinderella, Rapunzel and who knows how many other princesses. I am mad at you for running your scam on me: having me think I would live happily ever after; having me think there was something called the big bang; having me believe in the big break, the perfect man, the key to success, true happiness.
I want to smash life. Go to hell with all your trickery and treachery, your obfuscations and false pretenses. I used to think I was Goldilocks: a little white girl with a black mask. How happy I was the day my mother allowed me to straighten out those kinks: to perm my hair, to poison my roots. I want to stomp all over you, kick you in the face, scratch out your eyes, and bite off your tongue.
I want to be a crazy person and free myself from your meandering ways, your meaningless life. I just picked up a message from the static in my brain: Fuck off, this is my life!