I was discussing the whole omnicient POV with my stepdad tonight, how it rings so freaking wimp ass FAKE if at first you choose the first person and then you switch to the third....because you suddenly lose your gumption, chutzpah or, let's be honest BALLS, to say it (whatever it is) that thing you intended to tell in the FIRST PERSON. If you suddenly reach down and find your pants empty of courage, sorry but you can't just, like, you know...switch. Because when you're the one inside looking out, so intimately, so closely knowing so much as you do in the FIRST PERSON and then suddenly you make yourself the puppeteer, commandeering the entire world, well, we, the viewer, your audience...we can FEEL it. It's just not that easy to back out of the close up and deep down.

So please don't be a wimp and switch. Stick to your perspective and have the courage to live it out that way. The way you saw it initially. (He's writing a play, a musical theater play - is that what you even call it? - a 'musical theater play' - it's a Broadway-y thing). Mom and I say he's the one with the gay gene because even my gay brother doesn't like 'Smash' nearly as much as he does. (I like 'Smash' don't you? It's good.)

I tried this recently. I wrote a shocking, E-Hollywood story type deal about my own life. It felt great. Cathartic. Beautiful. Kind of, well, I hate to admit, but damn well written and like nothing else I've read. Except maybe The Glass Castle. Is my head puffed up with vanity? I assure you it's not. It's just that not a lot of people can tell their tale and not hide their tail between their legs for the rest of their lives. And not that I'm comparing because I'm not. (F you, man, I never said I could sing. Never. But I always said I could write). So yeah, this whole raw confessional was, in the end...just...too...much. I sat there and read it, quietly, serenely, wishing for just one moment that I could be like Augusten Burroughs, that I could dare to be that daring. But I knew if I published it, or wrote the whole story, that no one would ever hire me again. I'd have to be rich before I could tell the tale. Fearlessness and foolishness are, perhaps, one and the same. I want to be fearless but I can't give up my anonymity and the love of my family for a story. Not even a gloriously crazy true one.

So that brings me to this: SAY SOMETHING. As much as you can. Say SOMETHING. Or just shut the f**k up. Nobody cares. Because you're boring. Vapid. Uninteresting. Why don't you stretch your soul as far as you can, Gumby doll. Stretch. Yearn. Be uncomfortable oh thee, yogi guru chaturanga dandasana, whale-donkey pose inventing (striking largesse combined with pure idiocy and innocent confession (this pose hasn't been invented yet because no one has been that brave in their soul openness as of this writing)...

Gumby, where are you? Faking poses? Soliciting the girls? I can't blame you. Why would you want to stretch that far? What's the point? You stretch too far one way, you're a Kardashian. You stretch the other way, you're a mythical artist of profound inspiration. But how do you know which way to bend?

What a world we live in.

In the interim, I'll be living in the first person as often as I dare. It's much tastier here. More flexible. Sweatier. And infinitely more spontaneous. As covered up and bullshi**ty as it is.

Love. And love you more. You're the best one. The bestest one. The beautifulest one.

What do you need to hear?