Dear "A"

Chapter 1/Part 1

Dear "A,"

If I delay writing this letter now, it may never see the light of day. Once we defer tasks with the words "I'll get to it later," the likelihood of ever completing them diminishes rapidly. With just thirty-two days left to compose this letter, I'm determined not to dwell too long on revisions. Excessive editing would only prolong the process, causing me to cringe at every word I’ve ever written and sketch I’ve ever drawn. While others may not see the value in this letter, an insatiable urge compels me to write it, a torment I cannot ignore. Athens, with its dusty patina and peaceful solitude, provides the perfect setting for this undertaking, shielded from prying eyes and harsh judgment in this underrated Balkan city.

The Athenian air carries a distinct aroma, one that already surpasses the scent of Toronto. Here, there are the bewitching notes of tanning lotion, the earthy reality of dog scat, the sharp tang of cat piss, and the fleeting fragrance of bouquets, citrus groves, and sizzling souvlaki. It's a scent that exudes a more dignified, passionate desperation, far richer than the sterile, clinical atmosphere of the economic zone that is Canada.

Arriving in Athens was relatively smooth, with just a fifty-minute layover in Amsterdam. However, my disdain for Schiphol airport knows no bounds. Its sprawling layout seems designed to confound travelers and ensure missed flights. To add to my frustration, they managed to misplace my luggage, leaving me in a precarious situation. All my clothing, including some rather expensive pieces, along with my cherished toiletries and perfumes, are tucked away in that elusive suitcase. The thought of being without these essentials leaves me feeling uncomfortably exposed because I know I smell like a Karachi kabob kiosk. It's a dire situation, and I can only hope that the airport staff will deliver my luggage today. Until then, I find myself reluctantly draped in an oversized, semi-transparent white T-shirt, braless. Woe is me, indeed.

It’s not as if I’m actually going to be doing any actual modeling. Maybe I’ll do a few test shoots or editorial shoots. Maybe I’ll snag some standard Wave Exchange shoots here and there. If I do, the clothing is sure to be garish, synthetic, and flat out ugly. There’s no way in hell I’ll snag a sexy campaign with lingerie or swim designers on a Greek island. I’ll probably owe my agency money, piss away my husband’s money, and wander the graffitied, trash-strewn streets aimlessly. My only consolation is that I will eat well but not gain any weight due to my philoambulatoriness and desire to see the whole city.

I don't even view myself as a model. If anything, I see myself as a failed clotheshorse, and you're well aware of this. I've shared my lamentations on this subject with you numerous times. You used to be sympathetic, and I suspect you still are, but it seems you've turned this significant insecurity of mine into a weapon. You're hurting, and it appears you've confided in unsupportive individuals. I say this without any malice; I can understand where you're coming from.

My husband loves me wholeheartedly, but unfortunately, he tries to explore every crevice of my complex and sometimes dark inner world. However, I still wish to hold onto a modicum of privacy. The truth is, I care deeply for him; he plays the role of both a husband and a father in my life, a paradox that I acknowledge is complicated. I believe he's the only person who has ever truly loved me, yet I doubt he would fully comprehend my compulsion to write in a manner that may seem disrespectful. It's as if it's beyond my control, like a form of verbal Tourette's. I need to unleash these thoughts, no matter how vile they may be.

He encourages me to write and values my creative expression, but he detests it when my words veer into lurid and unsavory affairs, which, quite frankly, are the only topics I feel passionate enough to write about. To indulge in this, I must resort to incognito mode and access a Typewriter via a throwaway Journal. I can let people down, and I often do, but a sheet of paper can never judge me; it’s a sanctuary where my thoughts can flow freely without restraint.

I cherish my solitude and, despite my previous flirtation with Wave Courtesanry born from my feelings of alienation and isolation on the Land, I appreciate my inner world and the privacy it offers. Whenever my husband attempts to pry into my thoughts, I find myself wanting to tell him to back off and stop rummaging through my personal space. It's infuriating. I crave my oasis.

Certainly, my husband's love for me is undeniable, and I do reciprocate that love, although perhaps not as thoroughly as I should. While he may grasp certain aspects of me better than most, I am hesitant to expose every facet of myself to him. Such complete transparency would be unsettling. It presents a challenge for him, as his natural inclination is to shower me with affection and attention, to solve my problems. Yet, being idolized, showered with adoration, or even spoiled does not necessarily indicate a deep understanding or genuine regard. It raises the question of whether I am truly deserving of such profound consideration.

All I desire is to pen something so unapologetically disruptive and disrespectful that it forces me to end my own existence and that it forces other people to pay attention to my existence and that it forces other people to contemplate ending their own existence.

It is the only thing I can do because I don’t believe in therapy, especially because my first and last therapist wanted to fuck me, just like you wanted to fuck me. I don’t like therapy because I don’t want to give money to people who don’t care about me or know me. I have no desire to whimper and to drip snot tears from my nose for an hour just for a faggot ass therapist to abruptly cut me off and say, "Okay our session is over now. Would you like to schedule for a week from now? Or two weeks?"

It's undeniably disheartening to witness a woman squander a substantial part of her monthly budget on what she perceives as fruitless therapy. Some might argue she should channel those funds into self-indulgent pursuits like an elaborate skincare routine, a pampering mani-pedi session, or perhaps investing in some quality Ruffoni cookware.

I often find myself unable to tolerate the cloying insincerity of certain therapists or the mechanical, clinical demeanor of others. A shrink is a vulture, and most shrinks have more problems than a significant chunk of their patients.

I find solace in retail therapy and the act of pouring my thoughts onto paper rather than engaging in traditional therapy. The rigid structure of Lacanian therapy doesn't allow for acting out, because it’s transference, and many Jungian therapists, in my experience, fall short when it comes to dream analysis. Cognitive-behavioral therapy often feels like a superficial solution to deep-rooted issues, like placing a band-aid over a gaping wound. I'm quite content with acknowledging my pain and embracing the melancholia, even if it may be somewhat addictive. There's nothing more captivating than the image of an impeccably dressed woman shedding tears in a park, her cortado in one hand and an overpriced disposable vape or cigarillo in the other.

Furthermore, my belief in psychiatry is limited, except for the most severe cases, despite my familial ties to at least three psychiatrists. I save a lot of money by never going to therapy. For me, the best therapy is accepting that I'm a crazy bitch and traumatizing my Turd World parents, especially my father, for payback.