Letters From Henry: The Time Henry Rollins Sent Me His Creepy Fanmail Because I Pissed Him Off

“My war: you’re one of them
you say that you’re my friend
But you’re one of them…one of them.”

Black Flag, 1984 from “My War”

In 1995, Ken Meekins and Chris Farley, two young fans of Rollins Band fronted by Henry Rollins, the former singer for punk/hardcore legends Black Flag, posted trollish comments on the band’s website after Rollins Band canceled a show in Brandywine, Maryland.

“We put stuff like, “Why did you have to cancel the show? Were you home eating soup with your mommy? I think we may have called him a ‘punk-ass bitch’ too.” The guys included a fake name but entered a real physical address thinking Henry Rollins would not respond. They thought wrong. Henry Rollins responded by mailing them a handwritten letter and inviting them to a probable ass-beating:

BOB, HERE’S what happened: The promotor Seth Horowitz was not prepared for the weather even when he promised he would be. By the time it was for Helmet to go on, the power generators were submerged in water. The stage was mostly metal and the risk of bands and crews getting fried. Seth really blew it for us. We were there all day into the night waiting to play. It was the last show of the tour with sausage & Helmet and we were all looking forward to hitting it. It would have been #80 for the year. To leave that place w/o playing sucked. Next time you see me, call me what you called me in your letter and we’ll see how it goes.
-Henry Rollins

Source: @josephtaysom

I only just recently heard about this, and when I did, the story resonated with me in more ways than one. First off, I was not surprised because rumors of Rollins having fiery exchanges with fans over the years are well known. I had a similar situation with him in 1994, however I had not trolled him. I had merely written something, or a combination of things, that irritated him. I don’t really know. I don’t think I’ll ever know.

See, almost 30-years later I’m still wondering why Henry Rollins sent me a bunch of his fan mail as punishment in 1994. Yeah, you read that right: In 1994, Henry Rollins punished me by sending me a wad of his depressing and fucked up fan letters, with an invitation to use them as “company”, because I apparently wrote something he didn’t like.

My memory of 1993 and 1994 and the events leading up to my bizarre exchange with Rollins are not the best. Some things are foggy. I went through a lot of emotional stuff during those years, the kind of things that makes or breaks you: In the Fall of 1993, my best friend, JuJu, went missing while visiting Alaska. Her body was found washed up on a beach in Washington State months later. I was beyond devastated and the only way I can describe the grief I felt was that the world I once knew seem to die around me for a while. I threw myself into classic and vintage literature. Reading about the lives of things long past was easier than dealing with the present at the time.

The past April before she was killed, I had attended a Henry Rollins spoken word show with her. It was the last show we ever went to together. During that show, Rollins had spoken about the murder of his friend, Joe Cole, in 1991. Both my friend and I had been moved by the story, unaware that one of us would die violently before the year was out. JuJu had mused that we should write him and thank him for the show, but she went missing before we could do that. So, sometime around December 1993, I wrote Rollins telling him how great the show was and how the content was quite memorable for me. I didn’t tell him why. I didn’t mention my friend’s death or anything personal (other than that it was cool to know that someone else loved Henry Miller as much as I did) because I felt doing so would have sounded contrived.

Just for the record, I’m not one to share intimate things with others anyway and particularly with strangers. In the internet age, that sort of thing is pretty much a prerequisite for popularity online. Like, the more you share or bare, the more you’re “there”. I’m a private person, one who bottles things up even to close friends. Most writers are like that. It’s why we write. For release. To vent the volcano.

What I’m saying here is, me contacting Henry Rollins in 1993 was not only way out of character for me, but also against my better judgement. I did it for JuJu, to fulfill one last thing we talked about doing. As a rule, I don’t like most celebrities, even minor ones. Second on my list of disdain are people who chase celebrities (Stans) for clout or whatever reason. It’s cringe. Like, Holden Caulfield, protagonist in “Catcher in the Rye” observed rather accurately, I, too, think most people are phony, with celebrities being at the top of the list and Stans/clout chasers being the runners up. I’d been warned by people that Rollins had “a short fuse”. Nonetheless, I wrote my thanks on a postcard and I mailed it. A week or so later I received a response from him. A postcard, too.

The first postcard had some rather nice comments on it. He complimented me on my intelligence which I thought was rather weird but amusing. Unfortunately, I have misplaced it in one of the dozens of totes I store retro memorabilia and old correspondence in. But I assure you that he was nothing but pleasant. Nothing negative other than he complained about receiving “fan mail” from “dumb people” and appreciated my “intelligent comments” in comparison. He even acknowledged our mutual admiration for Henry Miller’s literary masterpiece, “Black Spring”, so I decided to post him back. But ever hear the expression, “Quit while you’re ahead”? Yeah. I should have.

I remember most of what I wrote on my second response postcard to him but without it in front of me I can’t guarantee that I’m leaving anything out. But I do remember writing that answering fan mail may be a bummer, but that if he spent more time reading some of the letters and responding rather than just sending them newsletters, that he’d be showing respect to people who buy his books and records. I’m pretty sure I also told him that if he was going to pursue celebrity status that he better get used to receiving fan mail. You know, something a naive twenty-something would say on a matter she knew absolutely nothing about. Of course, I realize now how dangerous fans can become, and haters, too. In hindsight, I shouldn’t have said it. I wrote that I hoped I wasn’t coming across as some “dewy-eyed groupie”, too. It was a joke. But since humor is not my forte, he took it as an accusation.

It’s funny, but you know how some dogs are completely cool when you walk by their house? Hell, you could roll by in a wagon pulled by cats on unicycles, blowing whistles, and they’d do nothing. They just sit or lay there on the porch super chill, ears up and eyes forward, just waiting for you to make the wrong move. It’s only when you open the gate or step on the grass that they go into attack mode: That’s how Rollins reacted to my second response to him. I had opened the gate. I had stepped on the grass:

Catherine, Here’s how it is: I get 50-100 letters a day. All of them needing me to respond like they’re going to expire. Every once in a while I need to get a lot of work done, like 7 days a week. I know that doesn’t matter, all that matters is that if I can’t answer every letter, I’m a rockstar and you’re not some dewy-eyed groupie!! (which I didn’t say you were/are) I’m not Dear Abby. I don’t want mail. I just want to work and die. When we get a new address, we automatically send a newsletter. It’s free, we figure that’s a cool deal. And the idea that a writer has to communicate w/someone more than w/a book is 100% bullshit. Basic rules of decency? (smiley face) Please.

Henry Rollins

Personal archives of Cat DeSpira

Needless to say, our conversation was over. Rollins was the first and the last letter I ever wrote a celebrity unless it was work related. I thought about it, but what would you say to someone who just told you, in no uncertain terms, to fuck off? Remember, I was not anything like who I am today. Life had not carved edges into me yet.

However, Rollins wasn’t finished with me: The next day I received “the package”.

It was a large manila envelope with the words, “Here’s Some People To Keep You Company” written on the backside. Inside was a stack of painfully depressing and creepy letters that fans had sent to him. The letters were presumably written by kids as young as 13 and young adults all under the age of 25, who were relating their experiences with sexual abuse, risky sex, childhood neglect, domestic violence and/or the humiliation and painful absence of an incarcerated parent. Some expressed the pain of suffering from an array of psychological disorders, including psychosis, suicide ideation as well as their struggles with drug abuse, alcoholism and psychiatric hospitalizations. Pretty heavy stuff.

Perhaps unknown to many people today, Rollins was seen as some sort of punk rock messiah by teenagers and twenty-somethings in the late 80s and early 90s. Thousands of kids and young adults deeply identified with him, his music and his philosophies, and saw him as someone who was famous yet still approachable. He was very much a father figure to some, a hero and a sex symbol to others because he wasn’t just an edgy voice railing against the hypocrisy of American culture and values, but he managed to exist in spite of them. Rollins’ staying power appealed to many Gen X who felt alienated and disillusioned by post-Yuppy America. He definitely appealed to me. I still think he’s one of America’s greatest modern writers and poets.

So, why did he send me his fan mail and allude that I may find something in common with 13-year old fanboys, drugs addicts and victims of sexual abuse? Was he mocking me, or them or both of us in tandem? I’m not sure. Perhaps he loved being a celebrity but hated being reminded of the audience who put him there. He wouldn’t be the first celebrity in Hollywood to convince himself that his success was organic. It’s my guess that many celebrities hold a certain level of disdain for, and even fear of, their more passionate and obsessive fans, and I don’t fault them for it. It’s no secret that passion and obsession often preclude violence. Afterall, many celebrities have been killed by their fans. Rebecca Schaefer, Christina Grimmi and John Lennon are just a few that come to mind.

To be fair, I have tried to see it from his side, but even if I compiled page after page of educated theories that could make a great argument on paper, I’d still be wrong. Rollins is an enigmatic individual, one with unique modes of communication. Trying to pinpoint what drives his logic or compels his emotions, like nailing the waves to the sea, would be an impossible task. However, I’ll offer this:

Just as I was still reeling from the violent death of my best friend in 1993, he, too, was likely still suffering from the murder of his in 1991 in which he had to clean up his friend’s blood and brains from the sidewalk afterwards because emergency services didn’t. Rollins obviously wanted to be left alone to pursue a new life. He was no longer the man-child we saw with Black Flag in 1984. He was doing GAP ads now. He was working with MTV. He was on the front cover of Details Magazine as “Man of The Year”. He belonged to the mainstream now and was expanding his marketing territory. Punk purists were unfairly referring to him as a “sell out” and accusing him of “acting like a rock star”. I would guess that he would have been under a lot of pressure at the time. On his next album “Weight”, released in April 1994, that entire album sums up pretty well what he was trying to transition through.

Some may think that I’m excusing poor behavior. I’m not. I’m forgiving him for being human.

Twenty-eight years is a long time to hang onto these letters, let alone something that’s always been a souvenir from a very confusing time in my life. But like a weird rock you pick up and hang onto because it looks cool and feels smooth in your hand; or how an ugly vintage vase redeems itself on occasion when the light from the window shines through it just right and, suddenly, a rainbow explodes, these letters from Rollin’s long-lost fans are sort of like that for me. Strange things that I held onto not only because of the bizarre round-about way that they came into my possession, but because there are random glimmers of unintentional performance art in some.

Rollins is probably going to be pissed. But isn’t that how you like him anyway?

The Fan Letters

“When you were 18, were you ever scared of life? Of what you’re gonna do and where you’re gonna go? And what if your dreams don’t come true?”

-excerpt from a letter

There are 8 letters total. One is 16 pages long if you count both sides of the sheets of paper. The letters were sent to me with many of the private details redacted/removed/cut out, most likely by Rollins before he mailed them which indicates to me that he specifically chose what to send me. Where information may have remained that could be used to identify individuals, I’ve redacted it. Ages of the authors range from 13-25. The letters contain many references to sexual abuse, sexual situations, violence, thoughts of violence, rape, incest, drug use, feelings of alienation, thoughts of suicide, family neglect, depression and various other confessions of malcontent. Content may be triggering.

Letter One: Lost on Campus
1/12/1994
Age 20

Dear Henry,

Well, this is a THANK YOU letter. Thank you for being there many lonely and scary nights when all I wanted to do was drive to somewhere very far away and never return.

I’m turning 21 on the 19th of January. I’m home in NY and working in NYC. I’m trying to transfer to school here. I spent 2 years down South at a tiny college that I thought was the place for me my senior year in high school.

To make a terribly boring and long story short, I was beaten up and raped by a guy I thought was the greatest. I was told by a school councilor that it was my imagination. Well, aside from the obvious physical and mental damage that I had with that deal, I started drinking a great deal like the rest of the school. I saw the worst side of myself and lots of other people. I experienced first-hand how cruel people can be and how some guys think that if they invite you to a party or give you the honor of speaking to them that you’ll want to be their sex slave for the evening.

By sophomore year (last year) it was all so unreal. A doctor at school put me on an antidepressant and then another drug to help me sleep. I truly believe that I gave “dumb blonde” a whole new twist while I was on that. I don’t know how many guys I fucked one night because I don’t remember most of it. Do you think it matters?

(name redacted)

Letter Two: Born to kill
No Date
Age unknown

Dear Henry,

How’s it goin’? I don’t even know you aside from your books and records, yet I feel like I know you pretty well, like you’re the only one I can trust. I think my problem is I hate too god damn much. I fucking hate everyone except for you and my good friend (redacted). I don’t even know what it is that triggered this hate towards everyone. I seriously think I’m going to turn into a psychopathic killer and kill everyone I see by decapitating them with a spoon or kill myself one of these days. But I don’t think I’ll kill myself because I’d feel weak. I try to stay the fuck away from people as much as I can and when I do have to be around them I go fucking nuts. I feel like I was born to kill, so if I live for a while longer I’m joining The Marines. This hatred fucks up my life. I rarely go to school because I see all these fuckers who make me sick. I guess what I’m looking for is to change my life and that’s why I’m asking you. So if you have some extra time I’d love to hear your response to all this, I know you hate Utah but there is (sic) tons of kids who would love to see you here. Thanks a lot for being around.

Sincerely your friend,
(name redacted)

Letter Three: Father Figure
No Date
Age 13

Dear Henry,

Hello, my name is (redacted). I’m thirteen years old, almost fourteen. I love your music. I think you kick ass!! I have about seven posters of you on my wall. You are my idol. Well, at least one of two. My other idol is Phil Anselmo from Pantera. But you are fucking awesome. I love “Boxed Life“. It was funnier than Hell! I’m going to get “Talking From The Box” video in a couple of days. Definitely after you read this letter (sic). I have wrote about 10 bands and only one has written me back. I even write letters to my Dad, who is in prison, and he don’t (sic) even write me back. My life would be complete if you wrote me back! How many tattoos do you have? I love your Misfits tattoos! Do you do something on Iggy Pop’s “American Caesar” tape?

I have read so many articles and interviews on you. In the High Times Magazine they did a thing on spoken word performances. Some bitch (sentenced originally partially redacted/cut out)… at a shop at the mall. I went in there every weekend and asked them if they had any Rollins Band shirts and they always say no, but we are going to get some in soon. So they started calling me Little Henry. Also because I have my hair cut something like yours is on the inside cover of your Boxed Life tape. That’s how much I like you.

What is Glen Danzig like? If you ever talk to him, tell him that everyone wants him to come to Evansville. I know you would never come to Evansville but you should. A lot of people wear Rollins shirts. How could I get a copy of one of your books? Well, please write back.

(name redacted)

Letter Four: Cocaine Overdose
No Date
No age

Dear Henry,

I just found out a few days ago that Chuck Clearwater died of a cocaine overdose. Chuck was a friend of mine. In fact, Chuck turned me on to a band that you were in back in the mid 80s. I realize that any mention of that bands name gives you great pain. So, I won’t mention it any further. Chuck was a great human being. Not in size but his heart was huge. I remember he came to visit me in the hospital one Sunday morning. Imagine that? Visting me. And I never thanked him. I never had the opportunity to. I didn’t even know his address. And now he’s dead. Shit.

I will miss him.

(name redacted)

Letter Five: “Henery”
1/3/1994
age unknown

Henery (sic) Rollins,

It’s 5:54 pm. I’m feeling pains in my chest and wondering why I think you’re gonna care. You’re man, a man I respect and…you love your soul (are you really) to (sic) thousands (?) (millions?)…

My boyfriend wants to fuck me. I’m a virge. I know sex is overrated. He can suck my puss for 45 minutes and I don’t feel shit. But what’s an orgasm worth anyway? What the fuck is love? How do you know? Do you remember your 10th? That’s what I would be. Answer me, o-wise one (sic). PLEASE! (because my parents raised me right)

How well do I know you?

(name redacted)

P.S. Maybe BS: I wanna be famous. How can I get famous?

Letter Six: Good Vibrations
1/4/94
Age 17

Henry,

After much speculation and pouring over what I would say to Henry Rollins if I could? I decided to go with the rhythm. While writing limits the intensity of actually meeting you -it’ll have to do. Too bad, though because I’m damn sure I’d like to meet you. You’ve surely got some wild energy going on. I like what you’ve got to say or have said it your spoken word videos and (more rare) interviews. I like it. The last five minutes from your Speaking From The Box video is incredible. I find it remarkable that you had the strength to draw courage from such a fucked up brutal tragedy instead of becoming embittered (but then again I’m assuming I know you -my apologies). Much peace and healing to you.

Geez, the words on paper don’t come as freely as I feel they should. I hope you read this, but I’ve also resigned myself to the more likely truth of this becoming landfill somewhere. Oh, well, what the hell. I’m, sending the vibrations anyway. I just wanted you to know that I think you’re making a difference (aren’t we all?) but that your efforts will/may actually reach someone who desperately needs to reached. I’m holding out for that anyway…

If I may carry on the fantasy, feel free to write. I’ll definitely return the service.

Send Peace,
(name redacted)

Letter Seven: “I love you like Fuck”
1/10/94
Age 24

Henry Rollins
2.13.61
P.O. Box 1910
Los Angeles, CA 90078

Dear Henry,

I’m sure by now you have received the past two or three letters I have sent to you; that you realize by now what a sweet and wonderful girl I am and what a lucky guy you are to have a girl like me have a complete and utter thing for you, and that basically, I love you like fuck.

I would just like to get to know you personally; and as a matter of fact, tonight I am going to see a movie called, “Shadowlands” which is about C.S. Lewis and the girl he married because he established a correspondence with her in his late 50s. So it can be done. I feel like I’m Lois Lane and you’re Clark Kent. I feel like I’m gushing. The truth of the matter is that at various times in the past I feel like I’ve had a kind of telepathy operating with you. You may have never felt the strong kinesthetic attraction between the two of us, but I have.

I hope you keep my letters because, when I finally meet you, I want to be able to sit there and laugh at them with you. You’re probably thinking that you’re loved by a dork, but I’d rather be with you so both of us could be dorks at the same time together. I hope the post office doesn’t have a problem with erotic correspondence. You’re 32. I’m 24. Haven’t you ever heard that that is the perfect age difference between men and women? Especially if the man is dominate…

(letter incomplete)

Letter 8: What if your dreams don’t come true?
11/30/93
Age 19
16-page letter

2:58 AM

Rollins,
Hey, Man, how’s your stuff? Didya (sic) have an oh-so-joyous Thanksgiving? I got to sit at the same table with the man who raped me. How about you? I dunno (sic) if you remember me. The post card you sent me said, “Thanks for the (whew) letter.” That was August of ’92, I think. I might’ve sent you one more since the first letter (whew), making this the 3rd.

Well, I was clean and sober for 1 1/2 years and, Henry, I fucked up! Surprise! Yeah, I’m one of these fallen off the wagon (types). My rationalization is, I ain’t put the needle in me but once and that was two months ago. So, I get drunk and stoned and take acid. I waste my mind and body, to be blunt, and I’m ending up more and more like dear ol’ dad. Man, the song “Just Like You” is right on it. Just how I feel about my ol’ man.

So what am I doing up at 3 a.m? Shit on my mind. Can’t sleep. So, meet my beautiful rat named respectfully after one of the men I admire and adore -well, as much as I can without knowing him personally -HENRY! Man, be flattered. He’s one of my best friends, this furry ball of love. We’re just hangin’ out. Him more than me. If you’ve ever seen a male rat’s balls, you’ll know what I’m talking about.

I’ve got the headache from hell-bordering on migraine. Every time I bitch about one, I remember the stories my granny told me about how my grandfather used to try to stop his After the war he had steel in his head and it hurt him so bad that he’d scream and go ballistic, rippin’ out his hair and banging his head on the sidewalk. He killed himself, blew his fucking brains out in his brother’s basement. Guess we don’t have to wonder what was the last thing to go through his mind, huh?

My Dad’s dad, he’s schizophrenic and an old man that smells like Winston’s and drinks insane amounts of vanilla! The lady that (sic) takes care of him don’t (sic) let him drink so he steals vanilla from the store. And my Uncle brings him whiskey. Wally K(redacted) has 6 kids (3 girls, 3boys) plus one grandkid (me) and he’s got a lot of money out away so that when he croaks we all get $25,000 bucks. Tidy, huh? My theory is the ol’ bastard will outlive us all. He’s got this dead leg (since The 60s) that he refuses to part with becuz (sic) -get this- he thinks the FBI is gonna put a device in the stump so they can monitor everything he does. He calls it his “hood ornament”.

The one man that I’m closest to is my Uncle G(redacted). He told me that Wally used to fill a gas can with water and walk around the outside of the house screaming at the sons of bitches with the “mind reading machine”, saying that if they didn’t leave him alone, he’d kill his whole family. The neighbors had an old sewing machine on their porch. That’s his “mind reading machine”. Crazy Walt everyone called him. He tells me that I used to call him “cow plop” instead of “grand pop”. He lives in (redacted) NY.

I’m from (redacted). Gary still lives there. He drives trucks now. I think he does it to get away from that bitch he’s married to. 20 years he’s been with her and he’s not happy. Daddy’s a drinker. Gary’s a lot like you. I saw you on “Politically Incorrect” awhile ago. I thought that host was a stupid shithead. The man is not funny. He’s clueless. Totally clueless.

Well, I haven’t been back to the nuthouse yet. And I quit taking Lithium and Tofranil in April 93. I need something else. I’ve been taking meds since 12 and the first drug they gave me was Xanex. Damn, had me stoned every day. But Lithium didn’t do much for the paranoia and the shit I’d hear. It helped, yeah, but I still had the voices and smelled weird stuff that wasn’t there. I didn’t tell ’em that cuz (sic) that’d mean more “inpatient” bullshit and I dunno if you’ve ever been in one of those places but it’s not a place for a kid my age to be. I’m 18 now but the first time I was admitted I was 15. I hate being locked up. The sound of those keys drove me nuts. Key for this, a key for that. Even the friggen (sic) bathrooms during the day. They put you in restraints if you so much as raise your voice. Even the little ones. 6 or 7-years olds, man. Thorazine shots no one really minded. Only when they wouldn’t let you sleep. That’s torture, I hate that fuckin’ place. I don’t ever wanna go back.

My head kills and I can’t see too good cuz my eyes are all squinted from the (head) ache. So I think I’ll go bang my skull into the marble windowsill. JUST KIDDIN!

2 be continued……….

December 2 12:41 A.M.

Well, here I am again, I’m at my best friend’s house. We didn’t do anything 2-nite. She’s been layin’ around reading Tattooing A-Z by Huck Spaulding. Her ex-boyfriend is gonna teach her how to do it. Bram Stoker’s “Dracula” is on. I love Gary Oldman. He’s beautiful. Yeah, the very first movie I saw him in was “Sid and Nancy” and I’ve loved him in everything else. Have you ever seen “Chattahoochee”? That was a damn good movie.

(The Very Next Day)

I get distracted. I was watchin’ a talk show about people who refuse to wear condoms and then a guy living/dying of AIDS came on. He said that he can’t ever go for a walk; he’s confined to a bed 13-hours a day with an I.V. that’s implanted into his chest bcuz (sic) his intestines no longer function. He told them (the audience) about walking up 2 or 3 times a night bcuz (sic) of night sweats or cuz he had a bowel movement in his sleep. And these people didn’t even fucking care, man. They actually believe that it’s not gonna happen to them. I’m scared outta my mind. That’s a real disease. It’s more. It’s a fuckin’ plague and it’s killing everyone. I’ve had two tests. They’ve both been negative, but that don’t mean shit. I could get sick in five years.

I started having sex at 13 and never used a condom. I don’t know what I’d do if I got it. That’s a slow suicide, a painful one for anyone close 2 you and yourself. I wouldn’t want anyone 2 watch me disintegrate like that. Those people need one hell of a reality check. That show (on AIDS) really affected me. I just fuckin sat here for hours and thought about a lot of shit. You only get one shot at life. There’s no promise of a fuckin white light and angels flyin’ about and all that. The only thing that’s promised is darkness. It’s scary to think how fast the lights can go out. Bam! It’s all over. Just another body in the dirt. That’s all, man.

This is why I can’t fathom why anyone would want to leave without making a mark. I wanna leave a huge fuckin hole in this planet. I wanna be immortalized in such a way that when I’m done here, I’ve made some impression on people’s lives, like you. Whether you’re aware of it or not, you’ve helped a lot of us, man. Your music and your voice have gotten me through a lot of tough shit. You’ve let me know that things don’t have to stay bad. I’ve got options and I can’t, I absolutely can not let anyone bring me down or lose my self respect.

When I listen to you, you get my brains going and my heart poundin’ and force me to see things in a different perspective. I got this anger inside and listening to you turns it into energy. I dunno, without you… You’ve made a real impact on me. I wanna have the strength and the will and the humor and intelligence that you have. I want that. You are definitely a man to be reckoned with. And any loser that dares to put you or your band down in front of me is going to get into it with me. You are to be respected. Maybe I don’t know you personally, ok. But for me to feel this way about a man I’ve never met, that’s got to be something (psychotic ?).

I’m not very sociable and well, if you lived in Boca, you’d know why. Besides that, I’m just quiet and shy and I’ve got maybe two close friends. But I write and I got o clubs and shows and get nuts dancin’ and bashin’ and jumping all about like a crazy woman. Am I making you uncomfortable with all this praise? You hear a lot, no doubt. I shouldn’t complain so much. I get clothes and a house to live in but I’ve got my own demons in my head that I fight with every day. okay, so childhood sucked but whose didn’t? who wasn’t raped and beaten and lived with a nutty Dad and wicked stepmom? Everybody whines about the past but there’s no future in it, so why bother, right?

I’m not near as responsible or togethers as I’d like to be but that’s all up to me. I wonder what the hell I’m doin’ sometimes. I’ve got this chemical imbalance and I lose time occasionally. I have so much built up inside and I can’t always get it out. I open my mouth or pick up a pen, and it’s gone, leaving me frustrated. I can talk. I ain’t retarded or nothing but I get out of control. I’ve been in four or five institutions since I was 13. I got one doctor to sayin’ I’m bipolar, one sayin’ I’m Schizo and another sayin’ I’ve only got “tendencies”. Then the one I’ve been seein’ for years says there’s no “tendencies”. You are or you’re not. He says I’ve definitely got thought disorders. There’s another things I dunno what it’s called but, like, you show the wrong emotion for, say, death for instance. My gramma died and I laughed. One suicide attempt I had. I was going to the hospital and the guy in the ambulance and my friend at the time thought I was faking it cuz I couldn’t quit smiling. Then I blow up at the little things and trash my room or beat the hell out of defenseless objects. A lot of these things are vague or I don’t remember them at all. So sometimes I pretend I do cuz I feel stupid. Why can’t I deal with shit like a normal person?

One of my biggest fears is insanity. Why do acid you say? Because I feel comfortable and my thoughts don’t fizz out. I try to explain this to you and I can’t do it right now. Have you ever been watching tee vee and the power goes out? That’s what it’s like -blank screen. Or at the movies when those pretty things slowly spread over the screen when the film gets fucked up? Like that. All this happening at 13. Puberty, they say. But I don’t really tell anyone becuz people think I’m nuts or stupid and burnt out. I’m a dork, Henry. One of those girls that’s not ugly or retarded, just a bit weird. When people looked at me they’d push their eyes into wrinkles and say mean things. I got used to it and it’s really not so bad. I give them wrinkles back. Once I got two, like, hangin’ out alone and reading a lot. I felt better. So fuck ’em.

I don’t think I’m a dork, but that’s just, oh you know, what I mean. I’m still here and I’m happy. More so than I used to be. I’m learnin’ guitar and I’ll be moving away two NY. First Colorado to see my love, J(redacted). He’s been away for three years and we’re still as close as possible at this distance. Hopefully things work out but if not we’ll always be close. I know that.

I’d love to meet you one day and give you a big, big hug and kiss your eyes. I like your eyes. Very expressive. I gotta take a shower cuz I stink. We’re goin’ out tonight to get nuts at a club. Unfortunately, for you, I’ll be back. You really should, and I mean, I would love it if you just wrote me one measly letter. Just one. Okay, Mr. Man.

December 7, 1993

My best frined is an idiot!! She ws raped by a guy she knows and she’s not doin’ anything about it! He tricked her into coming outside. God dammit, she’s so gullible. How can anyone be that trusted these days? I dunnon aboit her but the next time I see him I’ll fuckin’ kill him. How could she let him get away with it? If someone ever tries to do that to me again, they’ll be dead. No way would I let them walk away from me unharmed. Never, ever!

Is it awful not to trust anybody? I mean, I know you gotta trust someone, sometime. But how many times can you get hurt before you just say fuck it? When you were 18 were you ever scared of life? Of what you’re gonna do and where you’re gonna go? And what if your dreams don’t come true?

What happens when things don’t turn out the way you planned for so long? I know you’re supposed to believe and all that shit, but what’s going to be left for me? Has it all been done already? Maybe I’m not who I thought I was, and why do I have to be so screwed up? Got no job, don’t go to school, nothin’. I write and go to shows and clubs and waste my flesh on drugs. I’m the only one who can change it, right? So why don’t I? Maybe I don’t see what’s wrong with te way I’m livin’ but when everyone’s tellin ya you’re a fuck up and you’re not goin’ to be anything, it gets harder to stand your ground. It makes me feel kinda like I gotta work harder and do more to get where I want to be. I wanna be like you. The fame part is not what I’m after. The money’s not, either. I wanna reach somebody out there like you’ve reached me! I get so frustrated and confused and I feel real stupid sometimes. Like I’m just a wandering dumbfuck. Typical teenager, huh? Ah, shit, and my Mom…

Never mind, you’ve heard it all before. Worse even. I feel like I should say something brilliant and insightful and insightful to make another impression on you aside from an annoying waif. I’m gonna meet you one day. I’d do anything to be able to talk to you for awhile. Maybe I could learn something from you. All this sounds desperate to me. Writing and pouring my heart out to a man I’ve never met.

Since it’s almost Xmas, I’m asking for a bunch of stuff from you. A couple of books, a shirt, a poster and a spoken word video.

I just went for a walk to the store to get Smack Johns (cigs) and I listened to “End Of Silence”. Damn, get me movin’ and my brains jumpin’! I saw teh saddest thing on my way home. A dead duck on the side of the road. We have a lot of ducks around here that my Mom and I feed. I think we’re the only ones around that buy bread and seed for them. My Granny calls me St. Francis cuz I love animals and adopt strays a lot. Stray people, too. Ma hates that part.

Did you know that you and my Uncle Gary are a lot alike? You are the only two men two men on thsi planet That I admire and adore. You’re my mentors. He’s the best ever. He’s always there for me. Always without failure. But he drives trucks now so we don’t talk as much as we used to. He took care of me when my Mom wasn’t around and Dad couldn’t handle it. I wish he was my Daddy sometimes. I’m not gonna get started on his cuz it depresses me, I don’t expect you to remember my last letters. I could be wasting time for all I know, but I’d rather believe you’ll get them eventually. You should come here to (redacted) and play The Edge (club). I’d be there in a heartbeat. I’d love to see you with Rage against The Machine or Juliana Hatfield. She’s a cutie.

So, are you still beatin’ it in truck stops? You’re a crazy man. Are my letters too long? I always seem to send you 80s pages of crap. It probably takes you a million years to read. And I’ve repeated myself in this letter. I just realized. Sorry.

I’m getting another attoo on my left forearm. The same sun that you have on your back. I wanted to get one like yours but I couldn’t see all of them, so I’m getting that one. It’s beautiful. I wanna pierce my tongue. My ex-girlfriend did it and I think it’s beautiful. She was, too. She had a bald head. She wasn’t at all what or who she pretended to be. And a guy I like did it, too. His name is R(redacted) and he’s evil.

I love evil boys. If they’re too nice I get sick of them. I like then men and bossy, but they have to be respectful and know when to shut up and do as I say. They gotta let me dominate once in a while. I don’t like to get too close and I thought that guys were the only ones supposed to have a far of intimacy. My best friend is the same way. And looks aren’t so important. I can really like someone based on their mind. I love smart boys. Quiet ones. Still waters run deep. I’m typically attracted to tall, skinny boys with fucked up teeth or scars or something. Faces with character, you know? I don’t like pretty boys. I wanna be able to see the beauty as well as the unattractive sides. Every one has those. No one’s beautiful all of the time.

I loved you before I saw you. I heard your music and your spoken word and fell in love. I picture you having big, rough hands with short nails. I’ve never seen your hands. I love those kinds of hands on boys. I like dirty hands, too, and the smell of petrol turns me on. Just proves what white trash I am. (kiddin”). I got these beans and rice calling my name….

Okay, I’m stuffed. I forget to mention personality traits! Wit and cynicism and sarcasm. I love these. I’ve got a lot of sarcasm and my friends have a hard time tellin’ when I’m serious and when I’m not. I guess it gets hard to deal with at times, but I don’t mean any harm (most of the time).

One of the things I’m not proud of is my temper. (Thank you, father) I say hateful things but usually bottle things until they build up and I explode out of control. I trash my room, punch holes in the walls. Then I feel stupid and get pissed off all over again. I feel like a damn fool afterwards. It’s worse if someone is around to see or hear me. I tend to yell and pace a lot. What an idiot, huh?

Glen Danzig. Is he the devil? Have you ever met him? He seems pompous to me. What about Madonna? I love her. She’s all over my room. Have you seen “SEX”? I have it and I love it. She’s a pig. I’d do her (as if). If you haven’t seen it you can cum (sic) here and I’ll show you SEX (no pun intended). Call first, so Ill be sure to be here, wearing combat boots, thigh-high fishnets and black underwear and hand cuffs. Whoever thought up “fishnets”? Fish. Fish, Man. And women wear ’em. Some men, too, I suppose. As in “tuna fish”.

Oh, god, now who else gets my panties in a sweat? (besides you and Madonna) KD Lang, Melissa Ethridge is cute, too. I really dig Miss Lang the most. Lesbian love is beautiful. I was with a woman for a year and a half and it was one of the best times of my life. I was never that close to another human being in my life. Her name was Fran. I called her Frannie or “Narf” which is her name spelled backwards. She’s beautiful. We’re both thinking of getting together again. We’ll see, huh? I love women and men as well. Is there a problem?

I hate people who say bisexuals are trendy or not out of teh closet. And isn’t it funny how people see two girls and don’t give them a second glance but two guys holding hands, and mouths hit the floor. Or people scream “Dyke!” or ask us to kiss for them or ask if they can join in sometimes. Men sicken me sometimes. My last girlfriend and I were at club and get five phone numbers and two invites to dinner. And what’s the deal with peopel calling me a dyke? Yeah? So, I like that word.

I was witha gay friend, Ted, In the mall one day and we almost get jumped because our shirts said “Together, Proud and Strong” with the pink triangle on it. One of them was someone I talked to a week before at a party. When she found out (I was bisexual) she freaked.

And I detest guys who say that I just need a “good man”. The same could be said for them. I had a guy once threaten my life bcuz I told his girlfriend that I was attracted to her. She was attracted to me as well. He made up all kinds of shit, sayin’ she told him we had sex and I kissed her. C’mon! She slept here, but nothing happened. I kissed her once. Big deal, it was on her neck for Christ’s sake! He told someone he’d kill us both and leave the country. He called me and said that I’d best stay away from her ciz he’s looked into options and I wouldn’t like them. Oh, and that he’d hit me like I was a guy if he ever saw me again. I told him he knows where to find me and if he’s so confident in their relationship he wouldn’t be panicking so. Well, here it is – 4 months later and no Steve Bowser! His brother got up in my face once cuz he had hit on me and I turned him down, so his girlfriend found out and started shit. So my best friend stood in front of me. He faked like he was going to hit me and I had a beer bottle in my hand. So, I picked it up and went to throw it at his head but he pushed me down into broken glass. When I turned my head, he had my best friend by the throat over the balcony. I got up and punched and kicked him and the next I knew, I was pullin’ her into the house. Steve came in screaming cuz his brother sprayed him with pepper gas.

Anyway, Friday I am going to a club that I heard Steve frequents. This oughta be a scream! Somehow he’s got it in his head that he’s the shit. I don’t wanna get worked but I am not gonna let him intimadate me. I’ve been hit bym well, not bigger, but better. He’s like 200 pounds. Wish me luck. If I die, come play at my funeral, ‘kay?

Oh, on Halloween I done ya proud. Me and my ex girlfriend went to a club (Purgatory) wearing only jean shorts and boots. We painted out bodies. It was great! Everyone bought us shots and beers. A lot of girls asked me if my hooters were real! Yes, of course, they are. I’m a 36C. Touch them, love them, bite them. It was a good night. This guy, Pete, had an overcoat on and then he opened it and a big dick popped out. He worse flesh-colored pants and it was a trip. He’s beautiful. 6’2″ and skinny like if he stood sideways and stuck out his tongue he’d look like a zipper. The three exhibitionists! It was a beautiful thing.

The next morning my sheets were covered in body paint and there wasn’t much left on our bodies. It must have been the sweat.

I’ve wasted enough of your time, so I’m going to mosey. Merry Christmas.

P.S. Peace of mind, love, great sex, good bowel movements and other such stuff.
You’ll be in my thoughts, my dreams, my fantasies…my favorite one: you in hand cuffs, with candles and condiments. You figure out the rest. Oh, and a mirror…sometimes with Madonna.