Instead of writing about women I have trouble differentiating between being platonic or romantic to, or angsty non-binary Berlin-based alternative pornographers, let's get back to basics: this is a story meant to address you! So, without further ado, I'll do that.
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Remember "Godzilla Over Tokyo"? It was kind of shittily written, but I meant every word. I think about them often, especially in the wake of whatever the fuck I've been doing farting around the Calgary-Edmonton Corridor, which is a super gaudy way to say that I've been meeting cool people. That piece kind of bums me out now because I want you to have the same experiences I've been having. This is by no means a subtle jab at your friends. They're great and I like them all. I'm just worried about your lack of going to techno shows with other adjective-laden weirdos. You deserve that shit more than anyone. I'm shocked at how inaccessible it seems in Eastern Pennsylvania. That probably doesn't seem all that shocking to you, but to my Western Canadian mind, you're quite literally in the way of the Northeast megalopolis: Washington, D.C. to Boston: globally consequential sites for the development of alternative culture. Three years ago, I would have thought it to be the safest bet possible for you to have an easier time finding people like us out in the wild than I, given the fact Central Alberta bears no significant connection to the kind of stuff we care about, beyond it existing in the hearts of a few dozens, most of which I have grown to know quite well. I'm waiting fucking patiently for you to have the same luck, because your years of Weird Girlhood deserve to be validated by those who have felt the same. That's not to say you haven't found a few comrades - all of which I salute with a firm hand. Again, this is a gaudy way of me saying I want you to have more friends in real life who listen to the same music as you do. I know how important that really is. Believe me. I just find it incredibly strange I've had better luck than you (so far).
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Last night's conversation (the one where I drunkenly confessed to some of my most embarrassing secrets now on record) was a fucking doozie. I'm not even sure if that was a good idea. I kind of feel like I violated the contract of us as friends a little bit, but at the same time, I feel like we healed a bit, too. I used to tell my friends and ex that this conversation would never fucking happen unless I was completely willing to risk fucking us up completely. The fact I started it with like eight beers in me makes me worried about my respect for you, but I'm probably being overly dramatic. It probably doesn't even suggest a lack of respect at all. Maybe it's the exact opposite. Regardless, I feel it was a good thing to happen. I really hope it was because I'm not trying to let you go any time soon.
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Punk dreams, flower crowns, grassy fields, pure sunlight, ashy picnic tables, Sharpie hearts etched in wood, sidewalk Slushees, hands surfing the rolling winds outside car windows, youth being wasted on the young.
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Remember when we went months with me never putting out any Wattpads? We got three this weekend alone. I want to keep this up.
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One of your older posts where you talk about men frequently abandoning you is one I want to address in depth because it was one of the most jarring things you've ever sent me. I'm so sorry, Madison.
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Julian thought you were from Massachusetts.
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The Union is like a chessboard. Favourite states are like chess.
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As I venture into the international underground cognoscenti, I want you along for the ride. Day 1s only.
