Þú munt ekki andlit mig svo ég mun ekki andlit þér.

To whom it may concern,

Let's just lay it out there: I'm sick of you. I've spent the last three years wishing, wishing that we could be together. According to you, as of late, it could have worked out once. Thanks for telling me now when it matters. I've sat on my couch with you for hours and hours talking about our lives, talking about what fucked up things happen to us. This should cascade into passionate sex or making out, but it ends with a subtle "goodbye" as you grab your coat and leave at 11:30. Why's this? Because you're just my best friend. My best fucking friend. Right? Is this just another blog about the friend zone?

Sure, perhaps it is. But I like to think that there is more to this.

I don't know why I stuck around this long. I've tried to break it apart a few times now but just can't. Apparently we've decided that we need each other or something. "We were made for each other." Did you know you even said that? Did you? So what's that supposed to do to a guy that has professed his love for you? Seriously. I want this little flower to die. I want the sun to burn out and for a husky Filipino landscaper to step on that fucking flower and for it to decompose into bad soil that nothing will ever grow in again. We're concentrated on falling apart. We were contenders, we're just throwing the fight. I just want to believe in us.

No, fuck you Jesse Lacey. I've given up on that and you're partially responsible for why I'm here right now.

I think I've figured you out. Cynicism may play a roll in it, but I think I've gotten to the bottom of your "tortured soul." I get it, your life sucks. You've spent so many nights and texts telling me that that I think I should know by now. Bur really, what the fuck do you have to worry about? You're rich, indescribably gorgeous, you're dating the guy that so many other girls would die for, you get good grades, you have everything going for you. Maybe that's just it. This little persona you want to put on. You want everyone to think that you hate everyone. That you're depressed and independent and just don't give a fuck. But really, inside, you're just screaming to be the greatest. That's why you dress up so pretty every day. That's why you date one of he biggest studs at AHS. Because you want to be cool without being cool. What the fuck does that even mean?

I get that analyzing people is bad and never really gets to the bottom of anything, but I really thought I could figure you out, but I just can't. Everything I said above is completely wrong.

I don't get why you need me so much. All I've ever done was listen and watch bad indie movies and show new Brand New songs to you. Don't you have girl friends for that? Ones that aren't in love with you? Ones that aren't torn into pieces every time they have to see you with that guy?

Is that what this is about?

Yeah, I think so. Maybe I'm selfish, yeah, I probably am, but why have I been wasting so much time with a girl that has none of the same feelings as me? Fuck me, I've lingered with you for so long. When I like girls, I still like you more. There is something so so so wrong with that. I'm a decent looking guy. I could have just gotten over you and found another decent girl to spend some time with. But no. There's something unspecial that makes you so special. I want to hate you, because I should, but I can't. I can't hate you at all because you're so god damn perfect for me. Everything I've ever seen in you is what I've always wanted in a girl. I hate perfection. I like fucking flaws. I like neurotic girls that are incredibly OCD and hate everyone and used to hurt themselves and what to fuck Jesse Lacey and who like Shakespeare. I don't know why. I really, really don't. All of those things are so incredibly unattractive. But here's the thing: they're real. The thing I can't comprehend is why you would waste your time with someone so incredibly fake.

You told me you can't live without me. You told me I'm the only one who understands you. You told me everything about you. I've told you everything about me. I told you I need you in my life.

This is me cutting you out of my life.

If you need someone to talk to, talk to your fucking boyfriend. That's what he's there for. If you need someone to talk about music with, find some other loser who likes Brand New and Jack's Mannequin and La Dispute and whatever else I've thrown at you to talk to. Either that, or drop your loser ass boyfriend. Because as so so so fucking depressing as it is, I'll always be here. It's me or the jock. That's my last ultimatum.

I can finally say I hate you. I may pause for a second and read it over a few times just to make sure I mean it. But I'm pretty sure I do. I've gone four days without talking to you. I've gone four days without looking at you. But I have not gone a day without thinking about you. And that won't change. You're always there. There's just some things you can't bleed out.

Try and figure out what spawned this all. I bet you won't. In the mean time, I'm still waiting for you to text me asking what's wrong, and I'm waiting to delete that text without replying. Now go clean up your yard. Someone made you miserable by vandalizing your house. May god bless their souls.

You are colder than oldness could ever be. And you are bolder than buzzing bugs.


Yours fucking truly,

ae



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I say "fuck" 13 times in this entry.