Dear Stephanie,

I leave for Iowa on Thursday. I went to Death Valley without you. I stood there 
breathing hard. Shaking. Ate some salt off the dry lake bed. Hands on my hips, 
waiting for a flood. All that happened was bright and nothing.

If I had treasure, I would guard it like it was priceless. But all I have are broken 
bottles and chewing tobacco and people who say they are disappointed with me 
and call me Carl. I feel like some kind of substitute.

Dear Carl,

I woke up yesterday morning with my tongue between my teeth but there was no 
blood. I cut my hair and left it on the bathroom floor. I'm so tired of knowing the 
names of things I don't know.

If you're going to carry all those broken bottles, you should try harder. I promise 
this has nothing to do with you.

Dear Jeff,

I'm not disappointed with you but I could be disappointed in you if you were a 
woman and you let me try.

Today I cut off each of my fingernails and tried to scratch my face. This isn't a story 
about a man who'd rather be fishing. Do you know what I mean? I can't do anything 
anymore but buy food I'll later throw away.

If the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, the way to a woman's heart is 
through her throat.

It won't stop snowing. I can't stop talking to myself.

I've never been so unsure of anything in my life. I'm positive.