A Note to Sarah Hepola

(Last Updated On: November 2, 2019)

Writing A Note to Sarah Hepola and checking to see what condition my condition is in…Circa 2014

I know exactly what’s happening. I know it’s all about my own value of myself. Jesus. Why the fuck would I ever put that on someone else? Who fucking cares? I’ve been okay and I remain okay.

I want to tell you about my story in return. Because outside of the relatively stable upbringing, I feel that our stories are quite the same. At times reading your book I had to check myself. Wait. Did I write this? Perhaps during a blackout?

Listening to just dropped in..I can relate. Thre was nobody coming home to my wrath after the happiness. There was no one to come home so and so…I guess I didn’t notice.

The plays, the karaoke, the fact that I can’t find my pen on my lap. As long as I ‘ve journaled I’ve never been able to find a pen, and every entry starts that way.

This thing about drinking with the boys…What is that exactly, and why do we need it? Is it anything at all, or do we just think too much about it? Why all this toughness? Why all the denial about our own sensitivity? Yeah. And in drinking, it all pours out. I am a little, a lot freaked out by the similarities in our stories, and I wonder…why is that? There are probably more of us.

You’re not even lashing yourself in your book and that says a lot about how far you’ve come. I’m sure you’ve already done plenty of that. Jesus christ I’m listening to Micky Newbury and drinking Lonestars and chainsmoking as I’m writing this to you. I’m a couple years younger than you… which reminds me of a girl I once knew…

She was 24 and I was 29, so I know everything to tell her. Ha. She moved into a place with an elevator in Tucson. Her first apartment. I scoffed silently. Or not. I was drinking so I probably laughed at her openly, not valuing myself enough to realize that I could cause another person pain. Why would she or anyone take what I say as anything? I don’t matter in the scheme of things, so I can say anything. Or nothing. It doesn’t matter.

I fantasized about my funeral. Would anyone come? I don’t know. Will it matter that I’m gone? Does it matter that I’m alive?

My boyfriend is setting rat traps.

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