.

notes to peter hilton

i was thinking about you today. because
today i finished my first zine. and that
had more to do with you than i thought.
because of that book you made me read,
and the other one you gave me, and the CD


with the pianos. and i think about you a
lot. i dont know if i am allowed to or
not. actually i am pretty sure i am not,
seeing as you wanted to be brutally
honest with me. seeing as how you wanted
to break me worse than i broke you so
that you could feel better. but i say hi
to you whenever i see you because i think
about you. and i remember how i thought


we were going to be friends for a really
long time. and how we became friends over
this mutual dislike of this really
moronic person. i dont know if i am
allowed to talk about that or not. or if


i am allowed to talk about her or you.
but i am because i think about you a lot,
but i dont talk to you a lot, so maybe i
should talk about you, a lot. i dont


worry so much about you anymore and maybe
that is why i disappeared. i dont know
why i left you and i dont know why i
leave anyone and i dont know why we
arent friends anymore. and i cannot make
it right or okay or apologize anymore,
because i dont think it matters to you.


well, obviously it matters to you, but in
a way where you just want me gone and
wish i had never been. or maybe it
matters to you for reals or maybe youre
just scared of me the way you always
were. because maybe i am just scary. and
maybe you are so new jersey and i am so


not. and maybe you are such a musician
and i am not. and maybe you are so
literary and smart and focused and i am

not. but i made you think i was or
something. or maybe i just drink a lot;

do you still drink a lot? do you still
watch Stella? do you still dress up like
a fag and walk around sleepy close minded
quiet towns and get stared at and take
silly pictures? do you still get overly
excited to show me things? no, i suppose
you dont. do you still lay on your bed
all night awake waiting? listening to
your record player, because you brought

your record player, because it was
quality, and your crates and crates of
records that you had to bring 2575 miles


in order to hear. because its about
quality with you, right? not the look. or
something. i dont know what i am trying
to say about you because i dont know you
anymore. you dont wear your green hat
anymore. and so therefore i cannot tease

you and tell you to take it off and stop
hiding. maybe you just dont hide
anymore? and maybe i do? is that it? i
never knew you liked me because i liked
you, and you didnt like me. and suddenly


i think you did, but i never knew. i am
stupid. but i dont think it matters
anyway. do you? do you think it matters?
was something supposed to be different?


are we supposed to still talk? can i stay
up all night with you and analyze you?
actually no, can you just tell me all
your secrets? because i dont think i am
good at playing that guessing game with
you anymore. because if i was i would
know what you were thinking when you see
me and i shout out hello awkwardly and so
like me. and if i knew you so well i
would know exactly the words to say so
that you understood and forgave me
and you said hi back. i wish i hadnt
deconstructed you and then not followed
through. i wish you hadnt thought that i

knew shit, because i am the first to
admit that i dont, even when i do, or i
did.

maybe i just want you to wear your
green hat and say hi to me when you see
me and tell me to come down you to your room
and tell me about your girlfriend and
your job and the book youre reading

right now and your favorite Bukowski poem
and some really great CD you just bought
and tell me to slow down and speak slowly
because run-on sentences are obvious,
especially when its me.