Didn't think I'd write about this...

Dear Seamus,
You are hardly the only fictional being that feels real to me from time to time. Though I never thought I was posting with Chandler Bing’s father in between sets at the drag show. You are sort of a mental “cookie” that is my souvenir from my encounter with a fabulist—maybe it was all a prank to him—I’ve never felt clear about that part of it and might only consider it again if another reporter gets caught cheating, if not for your occasional appearance in my thoughts. It’s been years that I occasionally wonder if you’ve been dispatched to Uganda or wonder what might have happened if you and ita had gone out. It takes me a moment to realize again that you, at least that particular conglomeration of traits that might have gotten you busted much faster on a less polyglot message board, weren’t there, ever, although somebody might be out there legitimately rocking some of those things. I haven’t met them, but sometimes putting a face on one cheers me up a little so I don’t give myself too hard a time about it. Even though I know how it might sound, a crip of a certain age, not too clear of her own place in the world, being not-quite-paid to make shit up all day, got suckered and now it’s another thing she can’t let go. I know what abled people, especially shrinks of a rather old-school persuasion, might think about that. Especially if there are days when I picture you as hot—there might be some glistening, even, but when I fake-met you, you were just out of college so I can’t surmount the fake age difference…it’s “If I were ten years younger and also a figment” harmless. (Unless I’m sad enough to consider that I might have the “figment” part at least partially covered, but you wouldn’t want to hear about that. Even if there were an actual you to read this.)

Sometimes you are plain-but-charming(such nice manners! Such pretty teeth. And that African accent that’s part British but kind of on a different speed and inflected with something I’ll just say is black while feeling racist because I don’t really know if it’s Twi, Yoruba, or Swahili. If I really met you, I’d have learned, I promise. Enjoy the mental island that you share with all the Buffista sprogs who are off to college while I pretend I could…idk, knit you sweaters—In Africa? Whatever…clueless Mrs. Robinson! Well, I’d send you ramen and Hershey bars.
Your corporeal friend,
Erika

Friday Five...

Ten years ago, what did you think you would be doing now?
Can I tell you how much "Not this," Wildest *hope* maybe studying writing, journalism, or policy at Berkeley or somewhere, but that was only a dream born of wanting to live closer to my friends, not about the book learning. Maybe I might have had a book come out or met someone to date.Not yet! she says, like a crazed optimist that she's not. But I haven't given up yet, because dig the exclamation point(rueful smile)

2. Where do you think you will be five years from now?
Part of me has been expecting to die suddenly for about the last ten years(There's not a HUGE organic basis for this, but a great many people with my diagnosis do tend to...pop a clot and not wake up one day. Even if I'm stronger than I look and all.(I'd pretty much have to be, too.) I think, though, that it's mostly that a way forward is hard to imagine.

3. Do you live life one day at a time or look to the future?
I think I'm a planner that had to shift to day-to-day thinking because there are no plans for women like me.

4. Do you wish you could go back in time and undo something in your life?
Yeah, but I can't agree on which thread to pull. I often wish I'd scraped up the $50 for that Hillary event that a FOF invited me to, but I was super-broke. On the other hand, that was a moment that shifted me left, so that feels like wishing my activism undone, but...

5. If you could send a message back in time and give a younger version of yourself some advice, what would it be?
"Mom will get over it if you quit college. Nobody else will EVER care that you graduated, ever."
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