Be careful making wishes in the dark...

In the words of Oscar Wilde, I am so clever that sometimes I don't understand a single word of what I'm saying.

I've been writing up a storm the last few months: Writing, being shot down, re-writing, hating it, rewriting again, editing, editing, editing. It's really a miserable lifestyle: bearing your soul only to be told it's not good enough, or the grammar isn't correct (insinuating that you're an idiot), but I get a sick sort of pleasure out of it. Maybe it's just because I'm a narcissist, and at 21 am being held to the same standards as people much older, wiser, and more talented than I…I'd hope it's because I actually like writing and telling stories, and aspire to one day be good at it, not squandering a gift just to look like the big man on campus…

However, there is some legitimacy to that concern. "Today, Tomorrow, and the Next" has begun to enter the stages of post-production…cover art, author bio (pssht), page formatting, and…the dedication.
When I was young and stupid, I promised my best friend at the time that I'd commemorate our relationship by dedicating my first published novel to them.
Without going into detail, in the last year, we had somewhat of a falling out and no longer speak…at least not pleasantly. Time happens. People change. Life makes fools of us all at some point or another. The thing is, I pride myself in being a loyal, trustworthy person. I will and have done everything within my power to uphold the promises I've made to people over the years. I still intend on dedicating this book to my (ex) friend. So much so, that recently I tried to play nice, strike up conversation, make amends...and was met with "What do you want? Go fuck yourself."

Ha. You'd think someone who's familiar with the most intimate levels of my personality would know better than to say something of that sort. Anyone who's ever read my Facebook status updates, let alone this blog, LET ALONE been in closed quarters with me throughout a great chunk of my/our adolescence would be familiar with my completely voluntary lapses in maturity and judgement, and my insatiable urge to stir things up just for the sake of making mischief when I feel I've been wronged. Or on Tuesdays. It's all one in the same, really...

That being said, this particular friend told me to go fuck myself, not go fuck myself and forget that I ever promised a book dedication to them. Once more, as an upstanding citizen and keeper of my word, here's what I came up with…it may or may not be sent to my publisher depending on my mood by the deadline:

" A promise is a promise, no matter how deep the rift runs, so here you go:

Screw off. 

If you hadn't momentarily ruined my life, I wouldn't have a story to tell."

-- M.A.D.R