I write letters to myself

Dear Zed!

I am happy for your sense of humor and your endless sense of irony in all life situations. I know you use them against yourself just as much as you use them against other and I know that you hide behind a combination of them and that mouth-stained smile because you think they will prepare you for everything. I'd like to point out from behind the wall, that - in my opinion, because who the hell am I, you ask, and you have all the right to, so let me stress once again: in my opinion - this whole thing you're doing is totally useless, it's bullshit.
Darling, why don't you take the time to look deep into all of your dens, your pits, but make sure you don't miss any of the dark and dirty corners: see? there is no fucking way you can be prepared for every single scenario. And by every single scenario I mean EVERYTHING: life, death, sudden movements, long awaited actions, love, disillusionment, smells, tastes, leaving and coming back, mum and dad, son and holy spirit, all of the variations and dislikings. You get it, right? EVERYTHING. And my point is still this: you cannot be prepared. I mean, sure, you can make yourself believe that if you have your fingers crossed real tight behind your back, holding on to the multi-colored strings of your life and placing your thighs in just the right way, that if you do all this, then people will realize what a jackpot you are. Dear Zed, forgive me for throwing my truth in your sour face in this way, but: bullshit. In my opinion. You are not a jackpot. No, let me put it in another way: you are not a jackpot because of your crossed fingers and rightly put thighs. No no, I'll rephrase: there is no such thing as a jackpot. Zed, don't you get it? It's just you and Pablo Neruda and the butterfly, and Leonard Cohen, and the girls and the guys, and Melina, and desire and stupidity, and the smell of garlic, heartburn, your stuffed animals, radio in the early morning, pigeons on the square, you are just this way and just that way, and you have your faults, too, and you can be too loud, and you can also provoke people to get offended because of breast-sized handful of facts, and someone else can also stroke you with good intentions, but with their foot by mistake, which you take as a kick in the back, everyone can be momentarily stupid and sweet at the same time, it is possible to be happy because of nothing and unhappy because of something, even when you think you have your shit all together. Zed. Don't worry, it's all good. How can I make you understand that you cannot break anything, and if you do, then that's just the way it should be? It's OK to kill yourself over anything you feel is worth it, all right? But when you do, be so kind as to get right back up and make me some of that stuffed pepper in salted oil, you know, the one you had at that amazing little grocery store, and if it's OK with you, please cry your tears in it, too, while laughing, I really don't mind, because there are a lot of wonderful things in life, but let's be honest, there is nothing more wonderful than the stuffed pepper in salted oil. In my opinion.

(Bullshit. There is. You'll see.)