I want to be published in your magazine (magazine? journal?) so bad I could pee on myself. Whatever that means. I think it's just something the women around me say when they want to emphasize something they're emphatic about, and I've picked it up.
Are you a magazine, or a journal? It's hard to tell, because that information is not readily available on your website (http://www.rattle.com) - you've got more important things to talk about, I know. I just don't want to offend you by calling you a magazine when you are a journal. "Journal" seems more academic and important whereas "magazine" seems more trashy, but then again "journal" sounds more stuffy and snobbish than "magazine," and I don't think you are stuck up at all, so I don't know. Are you okay being trashy if at least it means you aren't snobby? All my best friends are that way, and they're still smart.
Let me tell you how I met you, even though it's embarrassing. I met you in a Books-a-Million once I had walked past all the key chains and coffee that they sell before you get to the books. You were in the back, in the corner, where they hide the poetry and art magazines/journals so they won't get in the way of people who are looking for the magazines with sex tips and pictures of girls with tattoos straddling motorcycles. You can get pretty good poems out of those too, but I was looking for the hard stuff, so I headed for the back corner looking for a magazine I had published in on the off chance that Books-but-not-necessarily-poems-a-Million carried it.
They didn't. But I was looking for it, and that's how I found you. Just like girls find their boyfriends on all those television programs that make me gag. Looking for something else.
I'd never heard of you. It was the title that caught my eye, plus the fact that you were in the poetry section, so I figured good things.
I flipped through you, and you had published a poet I really like, and I can't even remember who it was now, I have a horrible memory, I can't even remember the name of Jane Eyre's love interest in Jane Eyre. I'm serious. But anyway, you had published a great poem by this person, so that made me love you.
I didn't have any money to buy you, and now I lurk around on your website, reading poems for free, which you put up everyday. It's totally getting milk without buying the cow, and I feel so, so bad.
I liked you on Facebook. I share your status updates and stuff.
Some day, sweet prince. Some day. I will buy you, and I will buy a subscription to you, even. I promise. Liking you on Facebook is the promise ring I give you. Or, like my letterman jacket or something.
I sent you some poems. You didn't want them, and that's alright. I mean, I freaked out a little bit, but not much. I asked myself what was wrong with me, especially since you liked the other girl, that poet I mentioned that you published in the issue that made me fall in love with you. It's okay, though. I mean, it takes time. I'm not even subscribed to you yet or paying for the poems or anything, so.
Not that you have to publish me just because I subscribe. I'm not one of those poets that think that.
I'm a little nervous that you may have written my name down on a "so awful we will never publish her" list akin to the "do not take checks from, only cash" lists they used to make when people wrote bad checks. Or checks at all, ever. Is there a list like that? Did you put me on it?
I hope not.
I'll just keep trying, honey.
love and sincerely,