Here’s the link:
Dear Sandra Beasley,
I think you are spoiled rotten. Please don’t tell me you aren’t. Don’t tell me a poet’s life is so hard. Yeah, I know you didn’t. Tell me it is so tough to be on the road all that time. You car runs and you can afford to put gas in it, to hop from one University job to another. You even listed them. All those lovely jobs, where they WANTED you and hired you. Ah…looks like you aren’t in the unemployment line all those months. No, you’re driving that car.
You are fucking spoiled, Sandra. Even that conference in Miami WANTED you and invited you there, so don’t act like a brat and complain. Bet they paid to put you up in that hotel. Free rent.
Ah, hirees. From one WANTED place to another. The life. That plus the Post published the story. Then she tells us her memoir is published and available, too. Fucking spoiled.
No, I don’t know you, I don’t care, either. People take being wanted and cherished for granted. Sometimes, I want that, that wanted and cherished part so badly I want to scream aloud. “Hey, I can do this, do you want….” Nothing. That ole creeping feeling coming back, that it is simply not worth it anymore.
No, I do not want a partner. That is the last thing I want. I only want a place in this world, to be heard, to be believed. Looks like that ain’t happening. Because after I was abused in a hospital, nothing was ever the same again. I just can’t get over what happened. I can’t get over what those fuckers did to me. I can’t get over how my own friends didn’t even care nor believe me. And that is the worst of it.