To Whom It May Concern:
I am a writer. Many writers consider writing an art form. I am one of those writers. I’m also an artist–mostly pencil and pen, but do I love to paint. Or at least I did love to paint back when I could afford the supplies to support my painting hobby. Pencils and sketch pads, and coloring books and crayons/colored pencils/markers are much cheaper. Yes, I’m a member of the adult coloring book movement–I need to fucking relax damn it! I like elephants, kitties doing people things, and letters that spell out swear words the best. Five points to the house that can correctly guess my favorite word to color in with Crayola and/or Sharpies.
I fucking love Sharpie markers. Especially the two-ended ones.
So, like writers, musicians are artists. I love music. Music is a necessity to me. When I was ten years old, I taught myself how to play Silent Night on my Yamaha keyboard. I was damned proud of myself until I heard my friend across the street play fucking Chopin on her mother’s upright piano. Fuck you, Keri Keifer. But mostly because you killed your mother with a baseball bat when you were nineteen. Do they have a piano for you to play in the psych ward? Seriously, I know it wasn’t your fault. Schizophrenia is not your fault. I have loads of fond memories of you and your family, and I hope you still play the piano.
I love the piano. Piano is second to violin. Third is trumpet, because Nicole plays trumpet. In high school band, when Nicole was a senior, she tried to get the band director to teach Tusk for the football half-time show, but the students were like, “We’re fucking stupid, and we don’t know who Fleetwood Mac is, and Tusk sounds fucking lame.” And Nicole was like, “You guys are fucking losers. Fleetwood Mac is awesome, and Tusk is the fucking balls.” So naturally, the band director did not teach his students one of the best arrangements in the history of music. Granted, he himself was unfamiliar with Fleetwood Mac, being a dude in his mid-twenties. It’s a goddamned shame, parents don’t teach their kids right anymore. Nicole knows all the best books, movies, and music. Because her mom and dad raised her right, ffs. I honestly don’t know what is wrong with people, letting their kids grow up ignorant. In fifth grade, Nicole was reading The Diary of Anne Frank. Her classmate asked her what the book was about, and Nicole said, “Are you kidding? Anne Frank? Emilee, it’s about Nazis,” and before she could give more detail, Emilee said, “Nicole, you know I don’t listen to the same music you do.” True story.
Emilee listens to Country, I think. Lots of people where I live listen to Country. I don’t like Country unless it’s Dwight Yoakam, Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, or Waylon Jennings. Okay, so I like There’s Your Trouble, by the Dixie Chicks, but that is it! Maybe Achy Breaky Heart. But that is it! And Black Bear Road, by C.W. McCall. I listen to Black Bear Road on repeat, no lie. That’s it. Period. End. Until someone reminds me of some fucking George Strait song, or some shit. OH! Patsy Cline. Damn, Patsy Cline–she’s the Queen.
My tolerance for rap is even lower. Are you Twista? No? Then get the fuck outta my face. Are you straight outta Compton? No? Get to steppin’. MOST importantly, are you a Rap God??? Are you my Superman? Do you run with Dr. Dre? No? Bitch, leave my house, now. Eminem is King–a proper poet, which leads me to the point of this letter.
Some discount Eazy-E motherfucker liked twelve of my poems yesterday, and commented on all of them. The comments were only links to his SoundCloud. Like, he just randomly selected posts to attach his link to, and said nothing else. I understand shit like this happens. I understand the hustle. Fuck, I want people to read my book, ffs, but I don’t hit up random folks and leave my link on random posts. That’s fucking rude. Have some fucking manners, dude. Buy me dinner first. I’m a lady, motherfucker.
And P.S. I listened to one of your tracks, and you fucking suck hard, dude. Like, if I had a dick to go with my big brass balls, I would have wept in legit pain listening to your tired-ass raps. Only one dude can pull of the stoned sound, and that’s Snoop. Do us all a favor, and go home to sober up, you marble mouthed monstrosity. And quit auto-commenting. Damn.
Kindra, someone with taste