Actual Cover Letters I Send To Literary Magazine Editors Pt. 1

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Dear Wonderful Editors at the ______Review,

I write this cover letter as the worst song from Elvis Costello’s “My Aim is True” pops up on my Spotify mix. Needless to say, this wasn’t an ideal way to start out, but hey, it can only get better right? It’s like tripping before you get on the dance floor, puking before you run, or writing a cover letter to a publisher. Just get the awkward stuff out in the open ASAP.

I mean, I could’ve talked about how great your journal is, or how I read it every day, or I why really enjoyed “What Your Drink Says About You” By Josey Rose Duncan. But come on, you know that you guys put great stuff out there. I know that you guys put great stuff out there. Instead let’s just cut the bull shit and nod our cowboy hats across the bar in a “game recognizes game” fashion. I’ll ramble about music, and you read my piece and tell me what you think. And if it’s not for you guys, that’s okay! We’ll do this whole thing again next month with a new piece and a new rant.

What do you think? I think it sounds good to me.

Anyways, below is my 800 word story called “Nouns and Verbs”. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing both the piece and the letter.

PS. For the record it was “Watching the Detectives” Not sure if any of y’all are a big EC fan, but trust me, without that song that album is a 15/10. Easy.

The Smiths – The Queen is Dead : A Review

I found this record when I was in High School and it’s amazing. Both as a whole and  each song individually.

-Every time I hear the Boy with the Torn in his side, I want to get up on my nine story roof during a thunder storm and scream the ending with Morrissey, while the wind and rain pour on my half opened shirt. Basically Seal in the Kiss from a Rose video, only actually a good song. It’s addicting.

-I know it’s over makes me want to run as fast as I can away from my high school girlfriend of three years who just broke up with me over a text message. I want to not just run, but FUCKING sprint until my heart gives out, because somehow at my 19 years of life, I think that is the only way I will feel better.

-Never Had No One Ever, makes me want to buy the largest bottle of Tito’s Vodka and drink it alone in my bathtub for hours. I want to yell at the wall mirror about all shitty dates I’ve had and all the girls I’ve alienated. I want to keep tipping the bottle back until I pass out in a pool in my own vomit. Losing my job, liver, and dignity all in one song.

-Big Mouth Strikes Again makes me want to make a comic flip book of the feeling that comes over you after saying said something you should’ve and flip it for the entire song. Also I want the book to show snaps of me from when I learned words to today, reminding me off all the shitty times I’ve hurt people with my words.

-Cemetry Gates reminds me of the feeling of every walk home after a great first date. It makes me want to swing around every streetlight pole and heel click over a mud puddle. There will be a homeless man on a corner that I’ll give him my no limit Citi card because, well fuck it, I feel great! What’s money, when you got a feeling like this?

As a whole, this CD makes me want to re-live every man to woman type relationship I’ve ever had in one moment. Essentially a drug that releases three thousand times more dopamine than Heroin. And I want to be so exited to take it, that I stop behind a dumpster and have my body implode on it’s self, near a pile of maggots, spewing fluid from every orifice because it can’t handle all the raw emotion these four guys made.

In short, this album is fucking amazing!

15,552,340 out of 10

Well Shit….

You spend the first 5 years feeling shit around you

While the next 5, you spend getting told about all the cool shit out there.

So you spend the next 10 years daydreaming about all the shit you want.

Then you spend the next 10 years figuring out how to get the shit you want

Which makes you spend the next 10 years upset that the shit didn’t make you happy

That forces you to spend the next 10 years even more upset because now the shit you’re made up of, stops working.

So you spend the next 10 years taking care of some of the shit and giving the rest of your shit away.

Then finally, you spend the last of your days upset about the shit you didn’t do.

 

However if you’re smart,

and very wise,

you’ll figure out there is nothing better,

than just appreciating the beauty

in all the shit around you,

simply the way it is.

And accepting that all this other shit you’ve been told,

is simply

just

fucking

shit.

The Hard Part

Everything is in front of you.

It always has been.

Getting promoted

Getting 100k followers on Instagram

The satisfaction of seeing your son’s first A on a Math test

Being a better Christian

Being a Better Atheist

Meeting that girl across the crowed bar

Meeting the guy reading on the train

Owning a Ferrari

Getting a book published

Traveling to Europe

Making new friends

Getting promoted

Starting your business

Being featured on Kayne West’s new album

losing 50lbs

Being more productive

Becoming a vegan

 

All this and more, is real

Regardless of what anyone tells you.

They are real

and obtainable as a gallon of milk.

It’s Easy,

But you got to break the goals down into bite sized pieces

And attack them

everyday.

 

That’s the hard part.

Book Review: Bright Lights, Big City – Jay McInerney

I ran through this book in an entire sitting where I couldn’t sleep because I’m a dip shit who won’t buy A/C. Fuck You, I live in a city where winter last 9  months out of the year. I figured the odds were in my favor.

I started with page 1 and almost gave up aster the first paragraph. It’s all in 2nd person.  It’s not that I’m against 2nd person but it sometimes feel too much like someone yelling at me. It’s like writing in all commands all the time. I mean who the fuck am I, some one first year Army Recruit? I can think for myself.

No. I’m a reader. I’m not going to do all the things that the Michael does. Then again, he talks to a punk rock girl with a shaved head at a club when it’s 6:00am. That sounds like me.

You clever fuck you, Jay.

So I kept going. Screw it, it’s 6am , 90 degrees and only going to get hotter.

A hundred pages in I WAS HOOKED!

This man is compensating. The boose, the women, the parties, the coke. We all know it. It’s like a six sense that comes out as you turn the page. I don’t acknowledge it. You don’t acknowledge it. But it’s there and it bothers us.

When he realizes a he loves the girl that he always forgets to buy shit for and she tells him to fuck off, I realized I was this man. My friend Jen will call me tomorrow. She gorgeous, has depth, but unless I’m in a super self loathing mood, I probably won’t give a shit.

The majority of the book is centered around this idea of him and his exe wife Amanda. He remembers all these vivid emotional gems throughout the story. But towards the end he realizes he never really knew Amanda at all. It’s a simple story you can hear in line at Starbucks, but Jay paces it quite masterfully. I found myself realizing it just as Micheal did. Well done.

I won’t give away the ending, but it’s where you lost me Jay. I’ve had my fair share of break ups. Sometimes they end before they begin, but very seldom does anyone just “win” in a big way like that. Sure is the main character living in his own world, you bet your ass he his. Does this lead to everything changing, and him not recognizing it? Damn right. But all that kinda sounds like his fault, not hers.

Things seem to work out a little too perfect for Michael. Plus he gets a little needy to Tad’s sister. Why call her at the end, when it’s in the early am during the week and say a bunch of shit that doesn’t matter because you’re hopped up on Coke? We learned in a previous chapter y’all hit it off. A little bit over kill for me.

Overall, I loved this fucking book.

9 out of 10

So I Told This Joke Once…

We should’ve just stayed outside the Irish Pub after last call. It would have made everything easier. I wouldn’t be standing in front of these two girls and their six guy friends, trying to calm down this race war. The tension was like a reverse Native Son situation. Last time I share a joke about a skirt on McKinney ave.

I should’ve seen it coming though. I’m part of the most disposable group of humans. A born Lex Luther everyone loves to hate. According to Rastafarians, I’m the definition of evil. If I was a cop they would riot against me. Apparently I should just accept the societal definition that I’m a raping racist who’s tries to buy his way out of everything. It’s fucked up when you don’t even feel like you fit in where everyone says you should.

But look, I get it. It’s wasn’t the best way to start a conversation, and I should’ve done a better job of reading the room. Lesson learned. It doesn’t matter the original joke I wanted to share was about a privileged BMW princess. This girl just heard what she wanted to hear. She took out all the words of the sentence and just heard “Trash” and flexed her southern muscle.

A couple years back, I would have tried to plead. I’d tell her how my girl is Black, or how I was one of five blonde hair, blue eyed, people living in Miami. But that shit is stupid. The reality is that I’m not arguing with facts. I’m fighting with old memories of high school of thinking you’re not enough. I’m fighting with jealousy of not getting into college you wanted. I’m fighting with the anger of not getting bothered by police officers on a more frequent places. I’m fighting with the constant media stream that reinforces every type of negative stereotype.

Never mind that I grew up in a trailer park and have cigarette scars from my dad. Never mind I grew up in a small town where I had regular run in with the law because my hair was cut in a blue mohawk. Never mind I got picked on for wearing pants that didn’t fit me because they were my brothers. Never mind the media tells me I need to move completely out of the way for everyone else now that I worked hard to barely make the middle class. All that shit is irrelevant.

Trust me, I’m aware. I understand it better than most. The whole world is fucked up. It’s a random chaotic sting of events and most people only care about the shit that directly effects them. That doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, or any of those things that happened to you in your childhood. I just wanted the opportunity to share my humor and try to brighten your day. It’s not just your point of view out there. We’re all scared. We’re all insecure. Everyone is a lot more alike than different. We all feel the same emotions, but justify them differently because the situation is unique to us. It’s kind of funny when you think about it.

All I’m trying to say is, next time hear the whole fucking joke before you crucify me.

The Networking Event

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A friend of mine asked me if I wanted to go to a Networking Event with her.

A Networking Event.

I don’t mind meet and greets, nor do I mind conventions. But a Networking Event? These words alone make my testicles shrivel up. Leave it to the Millennial Generation to design some bullshit ritual like this. We’re so busy that we have to designate a time and place for us to ask the simple question “What do you do for a living?” We can’t just be polite at the train stop or airport bar. No.

We have to go to some hotel lounge to brag about what we do for 10 hours of the day and hand out business cards, so they don’t collect dust on the shelf. It’s like a High School reunion for successful people, except you didn’t go to school with any of them. What the hell? One night every ten years isn’t good enough for these people? They chase success like a junkie because the feeling of owning an E class Benz is better than a C class. Fucking Millennials.

This thing sounds awful. I have to pay 15 bucks to get a name tag that has my name and my company on it. I also get a complementary free drink in which I have to wait in a Black Friday sized line for a small Dixie cup of Mohawk Vodka and Cranberry Juice. During the line, Dan Scott from a Pharmaceutical company, will try to impress my friend Erin by telling her he just won the March Salesman contest, while he sneaks mental shots of her cleavage. I guess I can’t blame him, she is quiet endowed in that category.

I heard back in the 70’s the Grateful Dead got invited to a party at the Playboy Mansion, they didn’t want to go to. Jerry, Phil, and the rest played bartender and spiked the cups with Acid. All the Bunnies were tripping their skimpy skirts off. Even though I hate psychedelics, it still sounds like my kind of party. I want to see how these people act when something they didn’t plan for happens. That’s when you really find out if someone worth being in your network.

Anyways, I’m going to go because she said the place had good burgers, so there’s that.