To a Distraction.

or, alternatively,

A Brilliantly Penned Letter to the One That Continues to Frustrate, at No Fault to You.

You are a distraction.  In simultaneously the best and worst, most beautiful and frustrating, yet wildly intriguing way, you are a distraction. 


In the most narcissistic, pretentious way, I have SO MUCH going on right now.  From starting 12 hour work days on a film set again, to my writing and prep work on any given film I may be working on, 99% of my day is spent thinking about making movies. Though 99% may seem like a huge number, the singular percent missing has proven itself to be one that gnaws at my brain on a daily basis. At certain points in the day, I cannot seem to focus.  This, above nearly all else, frustrates me to no end.

You are that one percent.

It should be simple: tell you what I'm ACTUALLY thinking, get it over with, and win or lose, the one percent is pushed out of my mind. As one who prides himself on being able to say what is necessary at any given time, this task has proven itself insurmountable. 

It fucking FRUSTRATES me.

Incredibly, it's not as though you deliberately and with purpose pull my attention away from any of my given tasks at hand. On the contrary, in the grand scheme of a regular 24 hour day, we talk but only for fleeting moments characterized by very few messages often containing the words "fuck," "penis," and "butts."

"How then," you may ask, "have I become a distraction to you?"

Through much self studying (as hellaciously pompous as that sounds), I have concluded that it is NOT ONLY because, for lack of a better phrase, I still really, really like you, but because I find myself FOR SOME STILL UNKNOWN REASON, unable to articulate my basic "feelings" towards you and this situation I have internally put myself into. 

Enough with the bullshit words.

"I am still really fucking into you. It's idiotic, I know. That's why I'm telling you. You live in California, I live in Georgia/South Carolina. I have already landed on my carrer path without college, and you are still in high school about to go to college. As much as I feel like we fucking click really well (and as hot as I think you are), regardless of how many other guys you may talk to,  there is no way in my mind that we could EVER work out. It is a logistical impossibility. Not only could I NOT do it, but I know that you WOULDN'T do it. You're going to college and are gonna kill it during the wild years. I'm self aware enough to have accepted that already.  Regardless, the reason I'm telling you this is so that I can push it out of my fucking brain so I can go 100% all in on what I'm trying to do out here. For the record, I've thought a lot about telling you this earlier, but I've pushed it out of my head solely to keep things simple. I've idiotically tortured myself to keep it "simple." I can't, however, keep it in my head anymore. It fucking frustrates me too much. I'm tired of it."

I'm not one to hold words back, I hope you know that. The fact that I've stooped to writing this on my BLOG should tell you how legitimately fucking difficult it is for me to tell you this for real.

That's why, for now, I'll leave it at that. There's more for me to say. If you want to talk more about it, just say the word. 

With a deep breath of relief,