Dear Bachelor of the Arts

on the 14th day of December in the year two thousand and fifteen

B.A. –

I thought of you and thought of something else. Years ago, in the office of a shithead politician I saw my first U.W. diploma, framed at eye level. The curlicues on the j’s in his name. Gold trim. I could not imagine that future. What kinds of clarifying questions would the teen in me ask the twenty four year body I now inhabit? Dunno.

It is 9:20 in the evening here, Monday night. I’m sitting at a temporary desk listening to Bryan John Appleby’s The Narrow Valley (worth hearing) and writing you in anticipation of your arrival. I imagine a suitcase packed, waiting for word. Waiting for government officials to clear us to see each other, waiting for them to assess my posture during final performances, see if I mean it. The phrase “…by virtue of the Authority vested in Them,” stood out for the Godly, capitalized words. The absurd ritual of it all.

Well, I wracked my brains to do the backward math between myself and the Rights, Privileges, and Honors you promised me. Think I’ve got it down to zero. A few hours off anyway. A while back, we were getting hassled in the English advising cavern, you gave me a look that said it all.

So what, you’re going to be a teacher or something? or must be money in the family or a rant on the impracticality of forming a relationship with you. Well fuck that. I like you. I’ll make you worth it. Worth your trouble, worth how mechanically they handled you.  

And now, now I know you’re shipping to my address, awaiting my hands to rip your covering off and look at how you look at me. My name stitched into you. Your textured and papery flesh, my fingers running over it, wearing perfume the smell of ink. This will be fun. This will be a weird time.

I’m looking forward to meeting you and talking face to face.

Safe travels,



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