Dear Adam Roth,
I am at the Scooter Shop right now. It is raining. It will not stop raining here. It has been raining for days and days. I want to go away from here. For a week I have waited to see if you are going to New York mid-month, to hang out with superheros and crash on Ryan Lee’s couch next to the downstairs bathroom, one of two couches next to one of two bathrooms. Which is important, I know.
I do not know if I will still go if you’re not going. I mean, I love it there, but I’d rather save the money and go another time if you’re staying home. I would gladly shell out the bones if I knew we’d be able to hang out and go to the Creperie, the Bourgeois Pig, the Time Landscape park, the Cupcake place, the Cake Shop.
An inch makes no difference to me when a mile is what we’re closing in on.
Traipsing down 5th to that organic cafe, or the Russian Vodka Room where the drinks are smooth and the mafia men talk shit about you in their native tongue and they have sour cream even a vegan can eat. Giant sunglasses, cameraphones, sketchbooks and Sharpie pens, trains we don’t understand and construction scaffolds like nobody’s business, whatever the City throws at us, I want it.
The Comicon? Fun, sure. But only a tiny piece of three days when there are bridges to cross and little Lush pins with which to stab the absolute most hidden part of conceit. I have this weird feeling that you may back out of this trip because you are unsure of my motives and you don’t want your suspicions to be confirmed or unconfirmed. Maybe you are scared that I care more about this plane ride than you do. That would be awkward.
If that’s the case, I understand. You’re wrong, but I understand. I know that through the communications we have had, my excitement has vastly surpassed yours. That’s okay with me, but I don’t see why it would be okay with you.
I will tell you:
See the thing is–
It’s like this–
I actually don’t really know what to tell you. I don’t know if it’s your art or your worrying or your habit of being elusive in the most mind-numbingly infuriating way or the way you talk when you’re in a good mood and you’re asking interview questions about public transit and drifter lodgings in Norf Cak, but for one, or all of these reasons, I keep hanging on and waiting for you to tell me whether or not to book a flight. Since when do I let boys dictate my vacations?
You’re the closest thing I’ve got to a fakebestfriend next to J Waves.
That’s pathetic, right? We’ve never even met and I consider you one of my closest friends? What is that? I SUCK at talking to real people in person. I fake it as much as I need to, but then there’s nothing left, no substance.
Okay I’m starving I have to go. Here’s hoping you NEVER find this, even though there’s a link to your website in my blogroll. That’s what we call “passive-aggressive.”