First of all, I don’t like you. I just want to make that perfectly clear. I don’t care for your kind of shenanigans and I didn’t care to be a part of them.
I didn’t even care to be at your party in the first place. When I found out that the location of said party had moved from a house to a little place under a bridge by the railroad tracks, I did not jump for joy - quite the contrary. Do you think a girl like me enjoys maneuvering down a wall of rock at least two times as tall as she is? Trick question, because the answer is a very obvious “no.” But I’m a trooper, and my high school prom date that I hadn’t seen in a year was down there by the railroad tracks, and I knew that, so dutifully I crawled through the hole in the fence and worked my way down the rocks by stepping on some dudes’ shoulders. And then I met you.
I suppose when one attends a bonfire under a bridge by the railroad tracks, one should expect that those specific partygoers will be drinking like hobos, but tragically, I did not. But luckily, I caught on quickly as a train went by shortly after my arrival and you stood entirely too close to it, hooting and hollering like a hobo drinking under a bridge (which, as far as I know, you certainly could have been). I pushed aside the nervousness you caused me and instead focused on my prom date and his guitar playing, but of course, you just had to raise the stakes.
The first thing I thought when the train whistle blew in the distance and you settled yourself in the middle of the tracks was that I had seen this happen in a film before. The next thing I thought was “this kid is out of his mind.” The third thought I had, and the one that lasted the longest, was “this kid is going to get run over by a train right now.”
If I could give you one compliment, it’s that you do know how to build suspense. As the train rolled into sight and your friends yelled and pleaded with you to get off the tracks, you held steadfast. It was only at the last possible minute that you allowed your friends to pull you up and back to safety, and that takes some dramatic skill, and I commend you for that. However, it doesn’t change the fact that you are one of the douchiest douches I’ve ever seen have a near death experience. Nothing will change that.
P.S. I think I saw you at a concert last night wearing the same thing you wore that fateful first time I met you - cargo shorts, a wool hoodie, and a bandana covering dreads. You should know that God’s not going to keep watching over you if you keep looking like a tool.
I never wanted to be your friend. There, I said it. I don’t feel like I should have been obligated to be your friend just because your parents got divorced and you didn’t handle it well. You should have been more like your older brother who was also in Teen Book Club and dyed a red streak in your hair and gotten into skateboarding. But no. Instead, you got some shady back alley tattoo of a pentagram with a goat head in the middle of it right on your adolescent calf. And that was your choice.
How did you even do that? Seriously, you were 13, at most. I remember because one of the librarians told me that you got suspended from your middle school for threatening a teacher. Do you have a relative with questionable morals and a tattoo gun? He’d also had to have some artistry, because it looked pretty good, you know, for a pentagram featuring a goat head.
What’s more, what was up with the Satanic body art? Were you in a phase that you thought you’d be in for the rest of your life? Spoiler alert, that wasn’t the case.
Anyway, all this is just the prelude to asking why you thought it was ok to bang on the store windows at the mall as I was driving away, yelling my name like I’d turn around and talk to you? Especially when it wasn’t even me, but my best friend who looks absolutely nothing like me?
In conclusion, it is clear that in all these years since we met, you have not once checked yourself. And girlfriend, you’re long overdue for wrecking yourself.
With the utmost respect and cordiality,
Prayerdesign. I use this for everything. It’s my AIM screen name, my Twitter screen name, and an email address that I use when I want to register for wedding sites to see the dresses
and pretend I’m getting married to Eric from The Little Mermaid after he realizes that Ariel is not the girl for him because seriously, do you want to be with a girl who makes deals with terrifying octopuses and deserts her whole family just to hang out with you?, and I even used it on an OK Cupid account I had for like two weeks that I used to send probing, witty questions to people in my area to see if I had missed any cool people (I hadn’t). I’ve had prayerdesign for around five years now, and I just now realized that people probably think I’m some kind of super religious girl, which is the opposite of what I want.
It’s a David Bowie lyric, you guys. ”Columbine, my prayer design, I see you see me standing on my own.” It’s this whole Commedia dell’Arte thing, it’s beautiful. So, see, I’m not a super religious girl at all. Unless you count David Bowie as a religion. Which I do.
It looks like people were right all along. Praise Him.
Seriously, you guys, where’s my fucking unicorn? I told you, I’m totally cool to ride. You guys are some piss-poor excuses for merry fucking gentlemen. — Jesus after five glasses of wine at the Christmas party
And keep in mind that I sing a lot of songs. Like, a severe amount. If the number of songs I sing a day was the number of fingers you had, you’d be like some incredible mutant who was really popular with the ladies (RE: fingerbanging). While some of these songs are original and potentially groundbreaking and some are well-loved classics, some are worthless and make me want to hit myself, which would be pointless (RE: I’m a pussy). These are the latter.
*Fun fact: the first time, I put Paula Abdul instead of Paula Cole. How crazy would that song be, Paula Abdul’s “I Don’t Want to Wait?” So crazy.
I miss you so, so much. My soul aches when I think of what could have been. Had I taken the time to speak to you instead of staring at you in awe, mesmerized by your incomparable beauty, I could have offered you a bath. Perhaps we could have gone into the magic shop and asked the super hot guy who works there if we could use his bathroom for a moment with pure altruistic intentions, and while I ran the flaky toilet paper over your dirty face, I’d have seen that not only was I uncovering the extent of your physical beauty, but your inner beauty as well.
We could have walked down to the coffee shop and shared a cup of hot chocolate while you regaled me with your homeless adventures, and as you were telling me of your tragic past, my nose would dip into a bit of whipped cream that I wouldn’t notice because of my enraptured state. And with a sweet smirk, you would pause your tale to wipe it away. I would grab your hand quickly, an instinctive response I have when things come at my face (this is thanks to my borderline autism, which you would surely understand), we would both feel lightening bolts, hear bells, and see stars. I would look down at your hands, your beautiful hands that I had made clean, and I would know without a doubt that I had found my little slice of forever.
I’m so sorry that I cut our destiny short because me and my girl were on our way to the mall and you looked kind of shady.
With my eternal love and sincerest regret,
Hey, I drew a picture of myself. Well, it’s me if I made my clothes and drew on my eyebrows in between hits off my meth pipe and if I were in possession of one clown shoe and one classic clog. And if my eyes were actually just peas. And if my arms were made of semi-coagulated tapioca pudding. Other than that, the likeness is astounding.
I graduated college back in May, and I have a job and everything, but I’ve sort of been floundering. To get my life in check and to provide a direction for myself, I’ve developed a five year plan.
And that’s it. I know it’s sort of ambitious, but I have a lot of faith in myself.
I totally should have majored in art. That, or genealogy.