Dear Sufjan,
I can’t take it anymore. I’ve always been honest with you and expected the same, but now all I get are these games.
You said you were going to come visit on November 28th, and then you canceled leaving me broken and lonely without a reason to hold on to. Now I hear you’re coming on December 17th and you don’t even tell me yourself, I have to hear from the Pen American Center.
I don’t even know who you are anymore. When we first met you were a young, sweet singer songwriter, self-taught from the rustbelt. But those guys at Pen told me you have an MFA from the New School in creative writing and you’ve published in the Sunday Observer (UK), Topic, and even written an introduction to the Best American Non-Required Reading 2007! I was fine with a piece for the Believer here and there, but what’s going on? Who are you?
Also, I don’t see where you get off making a film about the Brooklyn Queens Expressway? Have you forgotten about Interstate 94 from Detroit to Chicago? Or What about 75 to Toledo? And since when did you become a filmmaker? Next I’m going to hear that you went to Tisch, or that you’re actually a forty-year-old Russian spy.
I haven’t decided if I’m going to see you at the PEN American Center’s second presentation of its new literary series, PENultimate Lit at Southpaw: 125 Fifth Avenue, Park Slope, Brooklyn. Maybe in their effort to discern what makes “writing really matter…in the 21st century” you’ll have some answers for me too. I heard rumors that you won’t even be performing. That makes me very sad, please bring in the Illinois…for old times sake.

Questionably Yours,
Everett (guest blogger)

P.S. doors open at 8