—✮☆— Love Letter to a Badass Bald Bitch —✮☆—

Hey, Tōsh

This is the fifth year we’ve known each other & we must take a long moment to hail each other for not ending up in a high-security Bihari prison serving a life sentence for going Ted Bundy/Dahmer on the other. We’re two Stoic betches!

Last three & a half months have been ridiculously productive & disappeared at lightning pace. I’ve minted more rectangular Gandhis than I ever have in my pro-life. Today, I sit here & write this deliciously dark letter. In the real world, writing this letter is considered a colossal burn of time as I will spend hours carving it & earn zero Gandhis from my creative crunches.

 

Maybe I’m stupid — all the money, fame, cheap vodka, threesomes, degrees, honors, Snapchat.nudes, blowsJs are exposed as hollow pursuits when they are pitched against a friendship that is still alive after five years, which in the Fully.Filtered.InstaWorld is worth 55.5 years.

Fun Fact: Anything worthwhile in life is either free or fleeting — and life itself is — fleeting. 

100 million people die every year & millions of them are babies who depart before they’re a day old. — millions of babies die even before they’re born.

There’s no certainty about anything in life — even our mothafuckin holy parents don’t open the damn house door at midnight [c’mon parents, you do know young humans [even with boy-hair] with boobs can’t sleep on the sidewalk] & our single-semester-only boyfriend’s lips slip & land on another girl’s lips — such a horror life is, innit :)

That’s why the certainty of Death is liberating at worst & orgasmic at best. And mostly both.

There’s a day somewhere in the future tomorrow when an asshole bird with mommy issues will come & give us the stink eye in our balcony, grab us, & fly us away from this universe [so it’s a great idea to keep your Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy’s copy & fresh underwear handy at all times.]

You & I will never win the Nobel/Oscar, You & I will certainly be one of the 100 million humans who will depart in a future year. Once dead, we will become statistics. The world will go on as if nothing happened.

But You & I don’t want to become sucky statistics. We want to be remembered as sextacular stories that haunt/inspire the human universe.

When we’re gone, it’s game over. People we made love with, made stories with, laughed & embraced, punched & kissed, bottoms-upped vodka & smoked weed with, stayed up all night with will also die.

But our tiny stories have it in them to be eternal. Stories will live forever if they’re real.

I’ve gifted delivered this Brandon Stanton’s book of pictures & tiny stories to a few people I give a damn about. I don’t know if they get —I do reckon you will get it— how crazily, deceptively, incisively beautiful it is. While we’re day-dreaming, this book airlifts us & drops us into the oceans of everyday people’s lives. And You & I are everyday people. A few simple words & pictures paint stories that, at times, smash head-on onto the hearts of our soul like a fighterplane hitting a meteor.

People will always tell you how amazing it is to grow old into your 30s, 40s, 70s & 90s — what a load of ol’ rubbish. The other day, I saw a bang-average 19-year-old college kid walk past me as I was crossing the three-way road at Hudson. I’m 42 {42 in Japanese means Death} & what I wouldn’t give to be 19 again. I would be totally open to & willfully “bump off” two-three humans even if one of those humans was You — I would totally do it. I love you, sure, but c’mon, you wouldn’t take it personally if I bumped you to be 19 again. If I were you, I would even pay for the rope. Ha! [dark-dark humor]

You’re 23. You’re so young. There’s something special about this number 23. It was made famous by arguably the greatest sportshuman ever — Michael Jordan. And carried forward by Legendary Shane Warne & David Beckham. And it was my roll number in boarding school & then I fell in love at age 23. So, I’m unabashedly jealous that you’re 23. If you’re ever miserable, imagine yourself as me at 42, you will snap outta your misery quicker than quicksand in quickland. Do give it a try. Imagination is as free & fatal as heartbreak.

What’s with all the lies we humans keep trotting out of our pie holes?

“Miracles happen all the time.” — No, they don’t! — if miracles happened all the time, they wouldn’t be called Miracles. They would be called “Things that happen all the time!”

Are all humans really born with creativity flowing in their blood at birth or is it just a nice thing to say to make most humans, who are mediocre at best, feel good?

The thing is, no one likes to be labelled stupid & most of all those who are in fact stupid. 

The trouble isn’t that we’re stupid, the trouble is we’re constantly told that we’re not stupid by nice people, which ensures we never cure our stupidity & forever stay stupid and make the world worse by making everyone, selfishly, accept us the way we are. 

Why don’t we accept the murderers the way they’re, already? Ha!

Quirky-Quote

“You’re not stupid coz you’re stupid, you’re stupid coz you’re stupid but also so stupid that you don’t even know that you’re stupid, coz now you’ll forever remain stupid.”

Page 94-95 — Humans of New York

In my life, I’ve loved Gandhi, Gulzar, Tarantino, & at least 27 humans whom I’ve known in real life. This homeless person’s clarity of thought killed me. He speaks with elusive authencity & brutal honesty. He straight-talks about Money, Family, God, Drive, Pretense, To Have/Not Have What it Takes to Make it in this World, HumanHeroes, Doing Your Job, Ridiculousness of Life, Beauty of Nights & Why Humans need Purpose!

———

“The trouble isn't not knowing what you want to be. The trouble is becoming someone you never wanted to be.”

Though it’s rare to be rare, you’re rare. You’re not stupid & you have what it takes to change the world, but whenever I talk to you know now it scares me to death that you will become something that you never wanted to be — moneychasing, peoplepleasing whore. But even if you become a sell out I will always remember you, remember your birthday, & still write you these cunty letters every year till I’m gone.

But I know when you’re gone, you’ll not become statistics, you will become an inspirational story that will float in the skies with the birds & stars, and humans will look up & say, “I bet my ass that betch was a lesbo” ;)

Take care, Tōsh
Don’t Die [at least not before I do]

P.S. And for the love of god, next time your folks don’t open the damn house door at midnight, steal your dad’s monster car, hit the speed & smash it into the Supreme Court wall.
That’ll teach ‘em — “Having Daughters Has Dire Consequences” Ha!