A Letter to Jennifer Aniston

Watching several episodes of Jennifer Aniston on Jimmy Kimmel reminded me of something I wanted to send to her when I was in high school.


Dear Jennifer,

I wrote you a letter in high school to ask you out to prom. The letter follows, but with a commentary from present me. In the olden days, they called this call and response. Original in bold, commentary in italics.

I guess I got this idea to write to you after I watched that one episode from Friends, where you go off to London to tell Ross that you love him. I probably watched that episode ten times; for the first time in my teen life, I found and related to a person truly and wholeheartedly.
 — This is no hyperbole, I worked that VHS tape to the bone. I thought you were real, like all good television. High school sucked and its people were demons, sent to this earth to copy homework and do shots. No one made sense except you performing a role thousands of kilometers away. I now know that this is called emptiness.

I started to look beyond Rachel and saw perhaps something so simple, yet beautiful. It was that little thing that makes all of us tick, the desire to love and to be loved. I really wanted to cry when you were having that conflict of going to London or not. Just from that one episode, I began to admire you and even Rachel. The admiration soon grew into an attraction and deep respect. But please, please don’t think that I’m a sick pervert.
 — I now know that that last sentence is a pubescent form of male weakness. I wasn’t sick, I was just hungry. At least I was aware that there was you and there was your character. Be informed that I had never had that conflict in Hell High and I only tasted that bitterness in my late 20’s. Ambition can come in forms, I suppose.

I’m just a normal 17 year old guy who’s been very, very unlucky in love and life. You see, I’ve lived my whole teenage life looking for relationships with girls and every time, I have been hurt. It was either the usual “I just want to be friends” or it was really the wrong girl to ask. After all this, I realized that I will never find love or the right person. It will happen someday. I hope.
 — Comforting to know now that this doesn’t change at all in adulthood.

For you though, I have one simple request; this May, it’s my senior prom and I will not have a date, I’m sure. I’m not trying to be negative here or asking for sympathy: I’m being very realistic. All I ask you.. if you could be my date.
 — I spent five paragraphs, spewing nothing but amputated negativity and then I do something crazy like deny it. Youth. I commend young me the balls to even write this paragraph. I’m glad this hasn’t changed either in adulthood, for me. Just not to actresses in Hollywood, though.

I know it’s an incredible request, but I hope you will understand that I want to be happy at this event, and not depressed like every other dance, where I sat and watched the girl I loved be with another guy. This is not a scam or some pervert’s sick dream; this is one young man’s request for happiness.
 — Second mention of pervert is a real winner. The rest is all true. I hated every dance, every social function, every gathering of soldiers of the Red One within the confines of secondary education. I think had you accepted and you joined me, you would have had a great time. I danced like the last day in hell.

I would be immensely honored and eternally enchanted with your presence as my date for that night. Waiting silently and patiently for your reply, even if you choose not to fulfill the request. A reply would be more than enough.
 — Nice touch to end off with Victorian chivalry. Perhaps mixed with Steve Carrell from the Office.

Epilogue: I did go alone for prom and I did dance like crazy. I’m in touch with no one really from high school and I haven’t written any other letters to American actresses or their favorite TV characters.

Congratulations on your recent wedding,

-Mina

Posted in Essays by minademian

On Living

I strive to write as if I’m on death row, with the execution in two hours, and my sentence decrees that all work must be burnt on my end.

There seems to be no other way to be in the age of social media, where we’re promised eternal recognition if we brand ourselves, package ourselves, and market ourselves. But that promise is false.

You can be marketable and timely, with no audience. You can have content and insight, and people scroll past you. You can even be living on the pulse of the zeitgeist and be forgotten when the beat disappears into the next.

Those dead writers knew something we don’t want to accept because it’s our greatest fear, that to write is a gamble that no one will give a shit, but you will continue to live.

 

For My Country

When the anthem plays
I have to stop the harmony at the door
and ask myself if I should let it in
I have some pride and I get some chills
But people roll their eyes when I recite the oath
They point and question when I wear its glory

So, harmony, you look tired and worn
you are never allowed rest
Sleep at the door, this closed door
I’m not sure I should let you in.

This Place is Us

Come here, this place is fetal
There are no ruffles in these sheets
It’s a shelter built with my arms

I have kept and framed your smile
That made my resting swords clank together
because light crashed into this place

Your love is clove-shaped rubies
I will sew them into the window glass
Your love is paint cans
I will dab these walls with a silk brush
Your love is unending velvet cloth
I will vest the ceiling with it

Your love is thickening broth
To be stirred with my lashes
And when it’s cooked and piping hot
I will let it stain and scald me
so I am never free of you

This place is fetal, this place is us

 

I’m Late for Dull Weeds

I’m wandering in a market
All I need is some flowers
to prop up a dull dinner party

Here I lay in search
Amongst wreathes and bunches,
buckets and tape

By the squealing cougars,
There by the tape and ribbons,
Looking down into a mirror
The finest organic mirror

Stray strands off the top of her ears,
Like streaks of fancy in this whirring place
She looks up to work her trade
And I look into the framed painting

Her face is a bouquet of fresh flowers
Resting in them a pearl necklace
and the petals humming a lark’s melody

She hands me an autograph of her face
And I trot off, bespectacled with mist
Like having looked into a waterfall
To that dull dinner party

The Guilty Knife

Please open the window
I’m drenched and my nipples are burning
The banging will stop if you open the window
My last words will change your heart

They will mop up the ache
The lights are about to change
Please open the window
I faint when I see your tears

Please just open
I know you’re bleeding from the gut
And I’m carrying the guilty knife
I love you, I said, as I banged against the rain.

This Bar Needs Better Lighting

The last thing I noticed
is the vodka spritzer in your hand
As you lowered yourself down
like your wings were just made gossamer

The leather beneath you sighed and fanned itself
from the fire that just tumbled out of your gaze,
counting the number of people
that you will ignore

I won’t ignore you
or your face kneaded
into milk dough
I felt like a unwanted crease

Your face lit up
from the notification in front of you
Cackle after a giggle
after twin smiles

Those other men stopped looking then
because their lust doesn’t like human
Mine craves the familiar, like a morning brew with eggs
I’ve lingered and lusted long enough now

Back to my cubicle
Sparring with all my other neighbors
On who will concede defeat
and look at you again first.

Three’s Island

The height and breadth is enough for me
I have chains for veins, I’m alone in this galley
Home vanished three hundred miles ago
My sunny Spain dies there daily

The captain calls out that the island is nigh
He has chains for veins, he’s alone in this galley
There will be milk and honey on the island
my tomb and future

The judge back home slammed the gavel on her heart
He has chains for veins, he’s alone in this galley
My sunny Spain sentenced to glue together the shards and pieces
Before taken away, my last tears she used to seal shut her cell

The milk is sour, the honey is sandpaper at my throat
The judge gavels me, the captain howls, I pick at my chains all day
Sunny Spain dies at home, while I live life away from her
I have chains for veins, I’m kept company on this island

 

Only Love at This Height

as I fly, my shoulders stay warm
by this blanket of light
a heart beat becomes a breath
unfolding through the blanket’s glow
there’s no end in sight at this height
this blanket will be a mother’s womb
and a teacher’s class
a waiting room to receive comfort
and free notes handed out to teach me love

Hello. It’s Me. You’re Googling Me ahead of An Interview.

Yeah. I write. Yeah. I have made music, produced journalism, and created videos. I write fiction, poetry, essays, and opinion pieces.
Yeah. I have diverse interests. Yeah. I have tried out a lot of things and it’s all over the Internet.

I’m not ashamed of it and I will never take anything down. It’s the totality of who I am and my journey in understanding what I want to do in life.

One day, when I grow up, I want to be a polymath. I want to be good at many things and maybe a few of them will be my career(s), hobbies, or just serious hobbies. I strive to be a voracious reader, a professional learner, and a faithful liver.

So. Does this bother you? Do you question my qualifications, character, intentions, motivations?

Yeah? Cool.

I am not a linear equation.

If you want one, just put my application aside.