25

An Open Letter to the Bearded Fellow Who Fancies Himself a Poet

Let us be clear about one thing: I despise you.

Alright- now that is out of the way, we can really get down to brass tax.
First of all, I did not hear a word of your ridiculous poem... I was on my fourth or fifth glass of free wine, which was absolutely delicious, I might add. But I remember hearing you say a few "fuck"'s and "shit"'s and, to be completely honest with you, they were not there for poetic value but rather because you thought they would make your poem dark and risqué. Since it left no real impression on me expect for a general feeling of disgust, I can tell you that your poem was neither dark nor risque but entirely distasteful. But I know you never asked me for my opinion and judging by your appearance, you could not give a good god damn about my opinion. But also judging by your appearance, you do entirely.

Oh- let us not forget your appearance. This was not your first offense to be sure but this one really took the cake for me personally. Our mutual acquaintance, who I assume is your benefactor in all of these matters, specifically stated that these events require elegance and grace... the venue posting a strictly enforced dress code on their website. But you, you burgeoning artist, you believe you are exempt from these niceties and nuances. The depth of your intellect requires the hardiest of flannel and the scruffiest of beards while you hope these articles distract from the fact that you are, in truth, comfortably supported by your wealthy father and thus posses designer jeans. Who am I to argue that someone of comfortable means can be deep and pensive? Certainly not. However, you seem to be going for a ... an artistic lumberjack? Dare I say... hipster? Oh, sir, surely you would protest and yet your beard is unkempt and your are, in fact, wearing jeans to an elegant affair. What other conclusion can I draw? You simply think you are above us ignorant swine who trot around in our suits and cocktail dresses brandishing our free alcoholic beverages and speaking in forced allegory. But how can I forget the days when your hair was trimmed and your face was clean shaven but you still stared out at all of us with your beady eyes. It always appeared, and still does to this day, that the bags hang beneath your eyes from weary nights filled with attempting the deepest contemplation only to watch the sunrise after a night of hunting through the thesaurus to no avail. I remember that the length of your shoes always attempted to compensate what you lack in stature, in intellect and.. well... elsewhere. I remember your copy of Dante was an antique and your Italian was sparse, I assume you believed it was enough to get you laid. You contributed little more than the brushing away of hair from you eyes. Your final project was long and boring and I sincerely wish I had been drunk. I honestly cannot remember a word of it save for your tone, dark and moody, and your professor, avid and getting hard with every line he regurgitated at you.

But, the heart of the matter lies unspoken.
Why do I despise you?

Do I despise you like I despise Christians (all religious people, I should clarify)? Perhaps that's it. I despise you because you encompass all that I despise of an imagined collective. You are a delegate of a percieved "other", an other comprised of artists, poets, and individuals of the like who soaked in their education and believed they had the creative capacity to vomit it back up upon a page with some semblance of originality; who believed they knew more than anyone else because they read one more Sonnet by Shakespeare or had their testicles fondled by their professor, metaphorically speaking of course (or not, we cannot rule anything out. This is NYU after all).

But there is an added valence to the matter, an underlining nature that seems almost dire to this situation. In other words, a percieved threat. I have no real qualms with you aside from your lack of respect for... anything really. You are no scorned lover, no failed friendship, you are a nothing in my life. And still this animosity exists each time I see you. It usually occurs in my visceral response to you wearing jeans at an affair that demands your respect - especially because it is you who is being recognized. I, sitting on the periphery in my pearls, go unrecognized and unnoticed. My intellect bypassed by other, more superficial qualities that I am supposedly to feel gratitude for. Is this why I despise you? Perhaps. That I am invited to hear someone lesser than I placed upon a pedestal, extolled for their virtues that clearly do not exist and if they do, are nowhere near natural but rather are an entire facade, a sham, a character ... all this provokes in me ire from deep within that has nowhere to go but the endless abyss of the internet. You are fawned over, you are tolerated, your vapid ramblings are worshiped by superiors for being edgy and interesting, and you are paraded around as a symbol of something I would abhor to be but one I crave nevertheless. Your babble, your sputtering, your ridiculous ramblings.... are tolerated, celebrated, awarded, and lauded. Your jacked off incessantly and I cannot tell who I should blame: you or those who love you. And do I blame them for loving your or for not loving me. Is it all jealousy or is it something more? I am often jealous but I feel you represent something entirely more reprehensible.

I'm not sure how to end these things.
I'm sure they require something rather polite given the whole passive-aggressive nature of these open letters.
But I feel perfectly content with the fact that you probably heard me bad-mouth you and you caught me sending telepathic daggers at you from across the room.

Get a button-down for Christ's sake.