the rant book

Dear Frank Iero, (Final Draft)

SO THIS IS MY FINAL DRAFT. WHAT DO YOU GUYS THINK I'M SENDING IT IN NEXT WEEK.

CRITIQUES ARE SO IMPORTANT THNX.

One real fucking cool thing about The White Stripes is how they have this way of making me want to try things, new things; like writing letters.

Like this one in particular.

My name is Miranda, I'll be seventeen on December fourth and I live in Kenosha. I love horror. (My favorite scary movie is The Visit, I dig Steven King, the news and haunted houses.)

I actually just saw you in Chicago this year at the Metro. I had been meaning to give you this letter then, but things fell through. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

But, yeah, that's some shit about me.

And while this is written because I want to thank you for the things you've done, it's also a part of my yearly cathartic purge. (Because on an emotional scale of one to reptilian shitbag, I can get to an eleven sometimes.)

It's late at night and while I wish I could write to you when my mind was clearer and less hectic, I don't think I'd have as much nerve as I do to even write this. I wish I was kidding.

But what I'm hoping is, if you don't appreciate the rawness of my words, you could at least be humored by it.

Sorry if you end up doing neither of those things.

I just haven't ever spoken to someone I've looked up to before, on account of the fact I don't have many heroes that haven't already kicked the bucket. And I don't think any attempts of necromancy could bring them back... Not that I'd want them to, there's always that off-handed chance that they'll end up jumping rope with my intestines.

And no one wants that.

I mean, I know I don't.

But anyways, now comes the part where I talk about how you've impacted my life. And you really have.

Since my Freshman year of highschool a lot of people I thought I knew pulled the lever to their ejection seat.

Which is fine, I learned from a young age never to get too attached or I'd end up kicking the shit out of myself.

But it got hard when the ones who did break down the fourth wall died, I guess? I mean I was fine at first. I actually acted pretty okay for a while, it was scary how normal I was, but it took the death of the two who raised me to really crack my bones.

Then I wasn't fine.

I stopped eating, I started turning to self destructive habits and I eventually just sorta turned into this shell of what I was. I was just totally empty inside.

Do you know what I mean?

Um, I was just numb to everything. I lashed out and did stupid shit because I knew it would hurt me. I had given hardly any consideration for my well being because I figured feeling pain was better than feeling nothing at all, you know?

I turned to terrible people who ended up figuratively twisting my arm and pushing me into a dark place.

And it's sad that it took me seventeen years to realize that the scariest monsters can be the ones that tuck you into bed or kiss your forehead and say “I love you”.

(But if there's a silver lining in that then it's at least it only took me seventeen years, right?)

I sort of came around the night I moved some things I inherited from a dead family member into my home and I had to clean up my room.

I just kinda got this feeling. This feeling with no name.

I never noticed it until I found myself standing over the garbage with old hallmarks in my hands. It was like holding thunder in my palms. It was indescribable honestly.

They were old photographs and birthday cards that had gotten dusty and faded. Even though these were only a few years old, they felt like antiques.

The immortalized ink printed faces of me and my friends; and the folded paper that was starting to turn gray with blended sentimental graphite passages.

They made me wonder, you know?

Was I happy then?

The point of mentioning this is that I didn't know if I could answer that question. It was almost like I forgot how to identify happiness?

I'm serious.

Loss and I had grown so intimately bonded that I was questioning good things and genuine smiles because I didn't believe it could be real. Like Santa or Jesus.

I started wondering to myself if I even mattered, if any of this even mattered. And I turned my back on so many people. Only worsening my situation instead of bettering it, I'm sure.

Maybe, in the end, I think I just was insecure, I never wanted people to see my scars because I worked so hard to make this spotless image of myself.

I didn't want them thinking that there's a possibility that I could ever be not okay.

I don't know why I didn't realize sooner that we aren't all marble gods, and that it's okay to be unhappy, it's okay to fuck up.

Because I did fuck up.

And I fucked up a lot. But the failures I made didn't make me. I wish I knew that sooner.

That's when I rediscovered you and guitar.

In spite of it all, you were a major turning point.

You used to scare me. Not gonna lie. When I was little, I would sit with my brother and watch videos with him that had members from his favorite band that you were a guitarist in.

You went so hard, could you blame me?

And then fast forward to my sophomore year when a friend of mine showed me your band. I was like “...What?”

I was unsure what to think at first, I remembered you, but I didn't really know you. That's not even to say that I do now. We've never met.

But then it was one of those nights. It was raining so hard. I couldn't sleep because my head was on fire with all the things I tried not to remember; and then your music came on and weighed me back down from that dark place.

I don't know if that makes any sense but, you were the first person I had been able to relate to internally. My anxieties and doubts seemed to be already written in your lyrics and it was the most relieving thing I think.

Just kinda not being the only one who was drowning in bullshit, you know?

I started learning how to play guitar afterwards, I was really inspired to do it. And it helped me a lot. It was a good outlet for all the pent up vibes I needed to shake off.

Thank you.

You didn't save my life, because that was something I had to do myself for myself, but you woke me up; got me out of my cycle of negativity and I'm really fucking grateful honestly.

Without even meeting me, you understood me. And without ever physically being there- you were still with me, you were in the things I did and in the people I met.

I believe that helped make me a healthier person.

But things are getting bad again.

And there will never be a word strong enough or a sentence well enough strung together to really tell you how fucking awesome I think you are.

But thanks anyways,

Miranda

*If you needed help understanding the scale I thought this would be helpful.

1 (being most emotional), 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, reptilian shitbag, 11.