Dear acquaintance (I'm sure you
would wish to stay anonymous),
I promise to try to make this
short, I wouldn't want to waste your time by telling you how terrible you make
me feel. You have so many more important
things to think about and do.
You have no idea that you bother
me so much. If you did know, then I think
you would have stopped sometime during the three years I've known you, yet you
show no signs of stopping anytime soon. I'm
starting to think you like to get on my nerves.
Unlike all the other letters to
people who won't ever read them that I've seen, I'm not going to say that I
really do love you. Unless I become a masochist
with an unhealthy love for you, my nemesis.
If I can love my nemesis, I love you.
But since people don't usually love their nemesis, I still wish I never
met you.
Oh, the times I've pictured
myself laughing at you and walking away.
*Bliss* I've wished so many times
that I could tell you that you're keeping people away from me. There's a reason I go out, and it's not too
hang out with you.
But for some
reason, I can't help but feel sorry for you.
I'm honestly surprised I'm the only one who feels so bad. Why wouldn't other, nicer, people feel bad for someone like you? Probably because you scared them away. When you find someone who might be nice to
you, you tend to get a little clingy.
Who am I kidding? You get really
clingy. And critical, and overbearing,
and downright mean.
You've never once said something
nice to me about anything. Let's take my
hair for example. I love my new haircut
but I have a feeling you think "pretty" is the standard view of
pretty: Long, curly, blond hair, bright, blue eyes, probably someone who's a
couple inches taller than me. That's
fine. I don't need to be
"pretty" to lead a successful and happy life. Prettiness can fade, looks aren't
everything. I'd like to have green eyes,
I'd like to be a few inches taller, but these things don't matter as much as
other things.
I'm not perfect either. I can be very sarcastic sometimes. But you don't get it. Ever.
I'm sure you aren't the only one who thinks I'm a real jerk just because
I said something sarcastic. But nobody's
perfect, it doesn't matter. However,
only you feel the need to correct my sarcasm with facts. It's a joke.
I'm not stupid.
And just to clarify, a guit-air is a guitar. And I'd rather you didn't point it out next
time. I've had this speech impediment
for my whole life. When the evil letter
18 (AKA the letter R) is right after the letter A, I can't say it. I never could, and I'll never be able to say
it. It's only now, thanks to you, that
I've become so embarrassed by it.
But don't worry, my dear, there
are still plenty of insults that don't have the offending letter 18. J
And you might be wondering why I
said "my dear" in the last paragraph.
I'm a poet-and "my dear" sounds much more poetic than anything
else I might say.
I still clearly remember the day
you looked me in the eye and said there was something weird about me. Right back at ya!
The fun part of all of this is that
I can write anything about you, and you still won't know who it's about. I know this is true because I've even read
some things about you in front of you.
You didn't get it.
When I see you, I feel like I
have to censor everything I say. It's
not like I say anything bad, but you just can't keep your mouth shut, if I told
you something, everyone would know. Or
you would criticize me, correct me, make me feel wrong.
It's amusing to think about who
will read this. You know about my blog,
you never told me if you like it, but you know.
The next time I see you, you'll
probably ask me who it's about. I'll
just say that the person would probably wish to remain anonymous and I wouldn't
want to hurt any feelings by pointing fingers at people.
This is my way of telling you
this. I'll never have the courage to
tell you it was you, not even through an email.
And if, somehow, I find it in me to stand up to you and tell you that
you're not actually my friend, you won't be listening. But that's probably for the better. Does this letter make me mean? Does it make me bad to spill out my
feelings? Is it wrong to finally crack
under the pain of constantly being put down by someone who calls you her
friend? I've said nothing for three
years. Swallowed all that you had to
give. I think I'm full up now.
Well, I promised to keep this
short, and it's getting pretty long. I
don't want to waste your time by talking about my feelings.
Just remember, when you ask who
it is, I won't point fingers. I wouldn't
want to be like you.
"The next time you point a finger, I'll point
you to the mirror."
Paramore,
Playing God.
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