Jamaica Poor, MA
December 17, 2010
JMM of the Future
To my future famous self:
I know you're reading this. And I hate you. A lot.
It's true. You know it's true. You remember.
But do you remember why I hate you? Because you're there. You've made it. And I'm . . . just . . . waiting.
You've probably forgotten waiting. You're famous now, and you don't need patience any more. You haven't waited on anything for decades. Not meals, not rides, not money. You don't even wait in line.
That's exactly why I'm writing to you, to remind you what it was like to wait. (In fact, reminding you about me was the point of this whole blog. Or had you forgotten that, too, you famous prick?)
Right now, it is almost the winter solstice. It's almost the first snow of the year. It's almost Christmas. It's almost 2011. The world is at a precipice and, even though you know what happens next, I don't. Not. Fair.
What do I get for Christmas? Is it an agent? When do they get me published? Do I make a lot of money right away, or does it take a whole 6 months?
How does my second novel turn out? How many millions read it? How many enjoy it?
Do the Cubs ever win the World Series? Will I care? (woohoo, baseball!)
Does Kyrie Irving's toe heal before the end of the year?
What do I do tomorrow?
Will I find something more worthwhile to blog about, or will I forever write meaningless crap about waiting to my future self?
Waiting sure is boring. I wouldn't even dedicate an entry to it, except that I want you to suffer reading about it. So . . . I hope you're suffering. Are you suffering? I guess I'll find out one day. One . . . day.
Until then . . . I'll be waiting to turn into something I hate. See you there.
PS Please write back, or just time travel in the new Delorean and say "Hi."