I never planned on buying Wheatus tickets, but Coolio had just died and I’d missed his last show like I’d missed my dad’s last breath, been there and walked away because I thought I could or maybe because my legs were sore, and for some reason not doing that to Wheatus even though Wheatus showed no sign of dying felt like the way to right those wrongs, a perfect ending like Noelle showing up with Iron Maiden tickets, come with me Friday don’t say maybe even though the show’s on a Tuesday and I don’t know anything other than “Teenage Dirtbag,” don’t know if anyone else does either, but I told myself I’d listen to them more even though I knew I wouldn’t because hell, I didn’t even visit my dad more, and what’s Wheatus’s discography compared to not visiting your dying dad enough, the sort of thing that makes you feel like mold, makes you long for the part of the song where your lips start to shake because you arranged his funeral and settled his estate and sold his furniture and lo and behold, someone should give a damn about all that but nobody does because those things aren’t that last visit you walked out on, nothing is, not even the words to every song on Wheatus’s setlist, because you’re not even the dirtbag after all, you’re the just the boyfriend everyone forgets about by the end of the second verse, you’re just a dick.
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Adam Shaw lives with his wife and daughter in Louisville, Kentucky. His work has previously appeared in Pithead Chapel, HAD, Taco Bell Quarterly, and elsewhere. He can be found on Twitter @adamshaw502.
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image: Jade Hawk is a meat popsicle.
Rejection Letters 