Dear #32

Point out all the flaws. Point out all the lies, the alibis, and talk about those impossible futures forever, and then, when they’re gone, feel good, no more need to care. How else could one feel better? That’s all that matters, right? That the one who loves makes you feel good about yourself, and comfort, and in a la-la little romantic comedy fantasy. That’s how to gauge how much one loves; by how good they are at petting you, and feeding you, and pulling the strings that make your mouth frown and smile and open up. That’s how one should be, the man, should be … adept at saying and doing all those things required by the script to make a smile, to make the audience clap and ‘aww look at them, how lovely.’ Another movie set, another movie setting, another fading face that once mattered, now does not, because some people rely on others to make them feel better. Tell them how they should be, they’re your dream, and everything is just as right as rain. Punish them for who they are and be mad at them for they aren’t. Never let them know they’re good enough as they are. Highly, select, erase. Back at square one, another face to use to replace once a face adored. How uneducated of me to think acting out of love is more important than talking about how perfect all the little pieces used to fit together, now somehow a rectangle is a square that cannot fit into the circles slot. The slot has changed shapes for a new shape to be inserted. A minivan car rental of a person who comes with an air freshener that smells like I love you. Smells like pretending to give a shit, doesn’t it? Smells like another frustrated mother fucker you passed on the stairs, looked at for a moment at a distance, then once the microscope zoomed in and the true humanity appeared, you, like all the rest, have disappeared. Back onto the showroom floor, to find another person to lie to even more. Buy love with your pussy. You can’t you with your personality. Today I ate a bit of cheese. Oh, how fucking interesting! Lets discuss this. How did it taste? Like cheese?! Holy fuck. When did this happen? Today? Holy shit. YOU SHOULD WRITE A BOOK! You could include the bit where you cleaned up your room! You can talk about the bit where you argued with your mom! God damn the novelty! Could there be another girl like you telling the same shit to another guy like me? There’s never been another, and there will be, a mother fucker on this earth that’s even close to being like me. Other than my brother, the same mother, and some others, you’ll never know or understand; and that, my dear, is my fucking plan. So tell the stories of the guys whose miserable lives they try to hide with fashion and their earrings and their category. Tell me what you ate for lunch. I’ll call the channel 5 news team to get down here right now on this breaking store. Smells like bullshit once again. I understand. It just wouldn’t work. If you try to pick up something once, and it’s too heavy, don’t worry about trying again. The boulder is to big for you and your fake tanned shoulders and your work of fiction face. I thought we liked the same kind of music. That’s a deep connection. We’re two cobras who like the same flute song. How about that, never knew i’d know such tender love, such tender loving bullshit, a poor joke told to an empty auditorium. I only wish I was worthy of your bullshit. I wish I you could see the face I do. The one under the make up and the mask and the eyes and the noses. The eyes sees everything but itself, ust like the eye of God, just like a camera that cannot pose for its own picture. that’s what you are, a camera that can’t see itself and the silly little blip of an absurd cliched script you call your life. Live, don’t learn, attach yourself to someone stronger than you who has the strength to shoulder all the fucking weight. Tell them how much you always cared. That’s the only love there is. That fight in the rain, the make up, the angry post on myspace. Barbie is a mass production synthetic whore and so are you. I love playing with those dolls, especially when they’re people. Whose whims are mine though they don’t know. One little argument and the annoying little bitch just has to go. It doesn’t matter one tiny fuck who loves the most and how. It matters who knows what real love is. Loving someone because they make you feel good is not love. It’s masturbating with another human being, letting them pet your bloated ego and your chunky ass and hollow fucking head. Keep talking about it. We’ll call the fucking news team again and you can tell them what makes you different than all the other units on the lot. You’re the same used car with a hundred thousand miles on it, same thing on the outside, same thing on the end, with the same bullshit new lover smell. Never fall in love. It’s sticky, and nothing gets the stain out. Morphine does and will, so see you soon. Welcome to the past girl 32.

Advertisement