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Dear You,

So here I am, sitting in a trendy cafe drinking a trendy little beverage, typing this letter. Why, you might ask, am I typing this letter? Well, let’s just get down to the thin of things. You’re an asshole, a confusing human being, and a total piece of work, BUT, like the frothy pop song, I just can’t get you outta my head. Sigh.

Fuck relationships. Even now, seeing people gaze at each other in romantic affection makes me want to barf. I say this because I’ve always romanticized the idea of relationships, but when it comes down to it, and I have the chance to be in a relationship, or I have close observation of someone else’s relationship, I just feel like laughing and have no need to put myself in the emotional straitjacket that most of these couplings seem to entail. I’ve always explained, primarily to numerous pesky people who absolutely cannot fathom why I do not want to jump like prey on every single person that shows me the slighest bit of something that may or may not be romantic attention, go through the emotional aggravation, the kissy-kissy baby bullshit, the small, nitpickety arguments and the subsequent temper tantrums about small shit like screwing up plans or not responding to phone calls or ordering something for dinner that wasn’t what the person wanted, that I have no interest in participating in such a mental torture chamber. I simply love being single, having my own autonomy, not having to account for my actions and behavior and explain shit to nobody really. The majority of people, even the most attractive ones, have flaws and weird idiosyncrasies, and while this is what makes them them, I am perfectly content to just be me, with me and only me. A relationship to me is something that may happen when people realize they have stumbled into a routine of hanging out with a person, that they like each other’s personalities and find them cool, and feel that their life is more groovy (yes, i use that word. shoot me) when this person just so happens to be hanging around.

I have never felt this way about anyone really, but I realized, that when you wrote me the other day, that I missed you. I think of you frequently, and there are a bazillion things I like about you that I’ve related to you before, just as much as I’ve related what I hate about you. But that doesn’t really matter, because here I was, on a bus, seized with a need to write this letter that you will probably never read, because you’re just too damn cool for social media. My pretentious self thought it would be more “real” to type this letter on the ink and guts of my typewriter later, after a much-needed appointment with my beloved shrink, but, it is like Kafka says“A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity.” So, to prevent a plunge into a fit of sedated neurosis that would accompany the slightly suppressed desire to type you this, I have instead taken to my handy-dandy Mac Book to eek out these worthless confessions.

And now, the gut of this whole damn thing, the reason why I am typing this, is that I fucking miss you, man. I love how we met under completely weird circumstances, insulted the hell out of each other, and lost communication for such a long time. But when we resumed it, traipsing around in random places at random hours, getting drunk and ending up in a library surrounding by several homeless men who all just so happened to look like Charles Manson, it etched itself very strongly into my memory. I long for those days, I love how you so pointed out that we were able to resume the same conversation a full year after we hung out, I love how you introduced me to weird, beautiful shit like “My Own Private Idaho” and Jan Svankmajer’s fucked-up films and just consistently showed me obscure stuff I probably would never have heard about. There’s so many things I love about you. I love how comfortable I feel discussing every little mental nuance and every potential tangent of every minor and major philosophical thought that might be floating off my mind right now. You get me. You really get me. and I get you. and I love you. How dare you write me, telling me that you love me and not be here?! It’s one year since we hung out, one beautiful year. You’re gone in New York, being the confoundingly emotional, capricious, bat-shit crazy but unfathomingly brilliant person that you are. I didn’t think you were actually going to go through with it, like you decided to move so many times before without actually doing so, but lo-and-behold you did.

I don’t know why I’m so fucking emotional today. I’ve only felt the pit of emptiness at not being around somebody anymore once. ONCE. and then you spring this “i love you” shit around me and it pains me and i hate you for it but also subsequently adore you. I was 20 once upon a time, two summers ago. you read the e-mails from my 20-year-old self a few days ago and this is when you said those three words. Even though I’m a different person now, but I haven’t changed *that* much, I know that by connecting with a younger version of myself and understanding how I was trying to open up, which was something I have hardly ever done. ever. with anyone in my lifetime, I know you’ll be able to get along with my present self. ha. I speak of “my present self” like it’s some partially attached appendage present but constantly annoying me with its existence. Dude. I miss you. Please come back into my life. Please be my Woody Allen. I feel comfortable with you weirdo. and that doesn’t happen every day.


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