A Bottle
I have written this letter hundreds of times. Never sent.
I don’t know where the line is between when I should just suck it up and keep going and when it’s time to complain. I don’t know why those two things are seen as mutually exclusive. I’m soldiering on after many vocal complaints. Both can exist, I think.
By morning, he had decided he needed somewhere nobody cared about theater, someplace where the name Chekhov was more likely to be mistaken for a rifle than a playwright.