To Whom It May Concern

I'm seeing stardust in the corners of my eyes. I have been looking in all the wrong places when I should have just been looking out. But honestly, that makes no sense until I got those front row tickets to the Truman Show.

I want to sincerely thank you for this photograph, this parody of a caricature of a carbon-copied joke. This canned flesh is reduced-sodium Spam, deep fried--tin and all--served next to a steaming leg of lamb garnished with embarrassing middle school couplets.

I'm written by aggregating programs looking for this season's Next Big Thing. I've got one eye on the pencil, the other on the screen, and you could fit the library of Alexandria in the space between.

I'm a no-commitment clause, hoping for someone to sign: "Best Wishes, Your Biggest Fan," and getting Kilroy's snot across the page instead. I look like a good read after six chapters, but I only keep you, dear reader, for one. The rest of it's in your head.

I'm present until passed, waiting for my chance, feeding until fed, bleeding until bled, saying until an untimely and ill-begotten said. And I wish I were as drunk as gods is dead.