An Open Letter to No One in Particular: March 25th 2013 An Epistolary by Harry J. Chong I'm sitting in my underwear.

My dark blue, half ripped underwear, in front my $300 sub-laptop. My hair, or what remains of it, is greasy and slick. I probably smell from being too lethargic to shower. I'm typing, trying to think, and I can hear my father's boisterous voice from downstairs, reverberating through the house. It is causing me a psychosomatic headache. I'm trying to suppress my annoyance, because what else can I do when I'm living under someone else's roof for free? I appreciate what he's done for me, but he talks non-stop about nothing important to the point you imagine yourself putting a gun to head and pulling the trigger. Even having earbuds in my ears, and listening to the Beatles, music which I acquired through means of piracy, is not drowning it out. I do not condone stealing, if you can consider piracy stealing, but I do not have enough money to spare to actually buy any music. I know that I'm wrong, but I reason with myself that the Beatles have made more money than anyone can ever need. As I check the internet, I see that Paul McCartney, possibly my most preferred Beatle has a networth of $800,000,000. If he goes bankrupt because some loser downloaded his music, then I just don't know what the world has come to. Anyways, I'm sorry about going off on a tangent. I should explain what this document is about. It is my attempt, maybe an experiment, to truly, and at least for once, capture my feelings -- in earnest, without censorship, and complete honesty. Of course when I say "without censorship" it does not mean I am going to be thoughtless, and swear, and bash everyone that I know of. I'm going to try to be as fair as possible, but there are some things that I need to get off my chest. I don't know who you are, or where you are from, but you might be wondering why I am doing this, why I've uploaded this to the internet, and why I felt the need to share my stories or any thoughts about my life when I am utterly nobody of importance. Well, I guess every human being has the desire to share, and be heard, and I am no exception. Not that I would ever want this to reach a wide audience, but I like the idea that someone out there, that I've never met, is going to read what I've written and perhaps understand who I am as a human being. But I hope that my "open letter" doesn't come off as narcissistic or Holden Caulfied-like here, because after watching a 2 hour long video from the USC Shoah Foundation, which was about a lady named Renee Firestone who survived the Holocaust, I do no want to come back to this document and see what a self-absorbed prick I've been. I need to maintain perspective and realize that my troubles aren't the worst in the world, but nonetheless they do seem like the worst troubles in the world because in fact they are my troubles, and I have no other true perspective from which I can compare. That said, I would like to tell you that I am depressed. Incredibly depressed. I bet I've mentioned this before, but I'll repeat it again: I am depressed. And I'm not talking about being a bit sad or being blue, or lacking enthusiasm for life, I am talking about a great, profound, deep sadness. Sadness, and to a large degree anger and bitterness, that has been with me for all my teenage and adult years. I am sad enough that the idea of dying right now is something I would consider bitter-sweet. I have a great desire to die, and am frequently thinking about it, thinking about jumping off a building, running into traffic, cutting my wrists, or shooting myself in the head. I actually do not like the idea of self-poisoning, because I hear it can be incredibly painful. I want to go quick and painlessly. However, though I do desire to die, I am reluctant, because I am afraid, and I do not want to hurt anyone. I do not want to hurt my mom, and above all, I am fearful. I am at an age, where I am not arrogant enough to believe that what my religion has presented me can be true. I am not sure whether there is an after life, and if there is, it would probably not be what I imagine. What if I came back? As a bug? No one really knows, and despite my outer-body experiences (which were probably just dreams), I cannot have full confidence that there is anything there at all. So that is the real reason why I'm still here, because I am a coward... Could that be considered ironic? A trait that almost all of us regard as negative has kept me alive. I would of course prefer to be

heroic. Sometimes I imagine myself saving the world, and being brave, and confident, and savoring life. But that has yet to come true and I remain a mouse. My fears keep me from achieving any type of goals I have, other than writing. I am afraid of failure, I am afraid of the dark, I am afraid of cars, I am afraid of pretty women, I am afraid of losing, I am afraid of never having any money, I am afraid of being embarrassed, I am afraid of traveling and getting lost (a fear I acquired when I was a 3 or 4 years old and my parents lost me in Eaton Center), and I am afraid of hurting other people. Hurting other people is something I genuinely do fear. I think about it a lot. My depression had made me into a cynical, angry, bitter person, and intrusive thoughts constantly run rampant through my head. I think about the most sickening things. I think about rape, and violence, and murder. Not intentionally. I truly do not want to do any of that, but those thoughts can be overwhelming. Especially with my parents. They support my bum-ass, but they have a tendency to irritate and hurt me emotionally. I know they mean well, but that's the truth. I remember one time I was washing the dishes, probably my dad's dishes because he seldom cleans up after himself, and my mom was eating an orange in the most irritating way. She was standing by the sink, chewing like some sort of creature from the muck, and I had a knife in my hand that I was scrubbing. Out of nowhere a whole series of thoughts flashed in my mind. I saw myself stabbing my mom in the head, and being arrested, and having my life ruined. Needless to say, I said "fuck the dishes" (in my head), and bailed. I'm not sure why the idea of murdering my mom into my brain, like some sort of a psychotic parasite, but I think it might be because I have some sort of residual resentment toward her. Even though, out of everyone in my family, my mom is the nicest, she does drive me up the wall. I appreciate and am thankful that she lets me be some sort of bump on the log who writes, but she never says anything nice really. She is a blunt person, and can at times be cruel. Not intentionally. Never. I don't believe she ever intentionally desires to be mean to her children, but there it is. Just as an example, I one time complained about the fat free yogurt she bought. I know I shouldn't have been an ingrate like that, but I really just said it didn't taste so good, and what does she say? She gets angry, points at me, and tells me that I need it, because of my weight, and she says in a menacing tone, "LOOK AT YOU." Look at me, like I should stare in the mirror, and regret how I look. That's what she meant really. My mom has that temper that can flare up from time to time, and sometimes she seems incredibly uncaring. I remember once fainting, as a teenager, and I knocked one of her plants over. While I was passed out on the floor, she never asked if I was okay, she simply yelled at me for being an idiot and knocking over her plant. She didn't call me an idiot, but it was strongly implied. She would routinely discipline me for being a fuck-up, and she would kick me in the shin, knock me with a broom, as I recall, or slap me. She loved to slap. (How can she slap?!) I remember one time, on my birthday, maybe I was nine years old, she slapped me in the face. We were taking a family photo and my older sister was teasing me. Because I was squealing she gave my five fingers to my cheek. The odd thing is she took a picture! But you know what? I'm okay that I was slapped on the face on my birthday. In retrospect it kind of make me snigger. I'm not really too angry about it. After all, my mom was the person who bought my cake, and literally the only person that remembered my birthday on the day of. To this day, I can't recall anyone, including family and close friends, remembering when I was born. That's the thing about my mom, she can both punish and reward. To tell the truth, more rewards than punishment, but don't we all remember the bad stuff most? I remember one time my mom bought me an electronic organizer. It was something I wanted really badly, and my mom who only had a minimum wage job, bought me this $100 piece of unnecessary technology. Was I grateful at the time? Sort of. Again I wasn't immune to being a spoilt, little shit. I think the problem was that, and this might make me sound like an asshole, the problem was

that though I got a lot of things from my mom, presents, gifts, et-cetera, it always involved a lot of begging. For you see, I was never the family favorite. I was the black sheep. My mom told me in no terms uncertain that I was an accident. (This partially explains why I was born in Jamaica, and my brother and sister were both born in Canada.) Well, thankfully abortions weren't too popular back then, otherwise I wouldn't be here. Yes, I know that's contradictory to what I said earlier, having noted that I am suicidal, but I do like the idea of existing. I just don't like the idea of I realize how whiny and "emo" I sound, and I don't think my mom deserves an vitriol that I might unintentionally be throwing her way, but honesty also requires annoyance. That's why Holden Caulfield is loved as much as he is equally hated. (For me it's hate.) He is an honest character, but at the same time he embodies the annoying qualities of the self-absorbed, selfish, narcissistic, young, white, American male. I guess in a way I'm like that, except I'm way too old for this shit. (I'm 28.) I wish I had my emotions settled and would not be like this. Yet there's always an inner conflict in me. I feel a certain way, but I invalidate my own feelings by saying it's stupid, and by putting myself in someone else's shoes, and seeing myself as others might. It's probably not a good thing for anyone' sanity. Either you should accept it, and ride it out, until you gain a new perspective, or just forget about it. But no, that's not for me, much to my annoyance. I must be this person who feels and thinks too much about everything. I'm chucking a portion of shit on my mom's good name. She has taken care of me from age zero to now, and has cooked and cleaned everyday, and done all these things for me, and I sound like a twat. She is currently in poor health, she has terrible vision, crippling tendonitis, and gray hairs. I try to help out, by washing up, sometimes cooking, something vacuuming, and taking out the garbage, and massaging oils into her joints, but I'm afraid she might kick the bucket early. And her life has been somewhat of a shame. Once she revealed to me that she only stayed with my dad for the kids. And that if she had the chance to be with someone else, anyone of her choosing, she would not have stayed. No, she'd prefer to be with someone like Brad Pitt. And that scared/scarred me, and I felt sorry for my dad, because he is a poor sucker like that, who has no idea what she's thinking, and no idea that he's inadequate as a lover (and I don't mean that in the erotic sense). It worries me sometimes, because sometimes I eavesdrop on her phone conversations, and it seems like she's flirting with the next door neighbor. It makes me want to cry, not because of the actual situation, which is a lot of speculation, but because I think of how affected children of divorce are. Here I am getting worried about lightly phone conversations, meanwhile a child in the midst of a separation is having to watch their beloved mother or father play tonsil hockey with someone they have absolutely no connection to. But I can't say that my dad wouldn't deserve a divorce. I hate to say that. He has been a relatively obedient, loyal husband, who has worked all his life, but damn...sometimes he's as dense as a rock. He's not stupid, let's be clear about that, I'm just saying that when it comes to his wife he is quite dense. He doesn't remember her birthday, or anniversaries, or any special dates. He doesn't bother with anything slightly romantic. I mean how about some flowers once a year? Or how about a couple words like, "Your hair looks nice today." It doesn't take much, but that's what my mom is dealing with. A man who only does stuff if he is told. If she said "buy my flowers" he'd probably do it, but only if she reminded him, and is that really the same? It's pretty much getting it for yourself. Yet my dad has not been worthless. He has in fact done a lot for my mom. He always, and I say without exception, welcomed her sometimes terrible band of relatives into his home. (For financial considerations it was his home.) Many, many people have passed through this house I am living in, and I'm not talking about a couple days or weeks here, I am talking about relatives, even cousins, staying for months, and months, and years. It actually drove me up the wall, because it meant that I didn't get a bedroom. And it also meant that I would get extra presents, and an extra does of smackings. My uncles had quite bad tempers, and they would yell at us to go to bed, and they would slap us

-- us referring to me, my brother, and sister -- and act as disciplinarians. Now, I wasn't a good kid. I gave the finger, I caused trouble in school, but my uncles, were worse than my parents. It was like they didn't care about hitting us, because were weren't their brood. Although I suspect my mom and dad gave them full permission to wail on us, on account of not wanting to do the dirty deeds themselves. In total we had three uncles. One of them was not really our uncle. Though we called him uncle, in the literal sense, he was really my mom's cousin. Out of the three uncles he was the nicest. For Christmas he bought me, my brother, and sister a Sega Genesis. It was much appreciated. Ironically he is the uncle who left one of the deepest impressions on me as a child. Because he was so nice, I didn't expect he'd ever lash out at me. It happened, I believe, after we had seen a showing of Home Alone with my cousin Stephanie. (Was born in 1984, so this was when I was seven.)We were in the car and I jokingly called him redhead. I called him that, because my mom told me his Chinese name meant redhead. I don't know why, but he got angry, and smacked me hard (least it felt that way) in the back of the head. I quieted down and went home, bewildered. I was incredibly embarrassed and never mentioned it to anyone. My brother and sister never mentioned it either, because in general they were the ones beating me up. In a way I blame my mom for what happened, because she invited all these people into her home, and they were often not very nice. Nice sometimes! But often times quite cruel! Again, not that I wasn't a little shit. I remember I once gave my mom a huge bruise by crying and beating on her arm, asking her to carry me on her back. I didn't hit her arm intentionally though. I recall that my state of mind was desperate and needy. The flailing of the limbs was some type of childish instinct. I never ever intended to harm anyone, but I did, I think, eventually got my way? I may be injecting some writer's perspective here, but I think that maybe in my little brain, I was trying to avoid the fact that I was growing up. After all, she refused to carry me initially, not because she didn't want to, but because I was getting too large and cumbersome. Like a panda or some type of bear. I definitely had sympathy for my mom, particularly as I grew up. She gave up a lot after squatting out her three children, and what did they do to make her proud? None of them made her proud actually. My brother ran off to Taiwan, my sister declared angrily that she was a lesbian (a problem for my mom as she is extremely Catholic),and I am a failed writer. I wish that I could give her a break or at least that she would get healthier. She prays to God all the time, yet He chooses to ignore her. My reasoning is that's because He doesn't exist and she thinks she isn't praying hard enough. Coincidentally, she also likes playing the lottery a lot. She thinks that her problems will be resolved when she hits the jackpot. Sometimes I hear people saying the lotto is a tax on the stupid, but since my mom plays, I am reluctant to repeat that. I would say it is a tax on the poor. Because you do play these things when you're poor, don't you? Because you need hope. Everyone needs hope, particularly when you are younger. When I was a kid my dad totally took that away from me. Man, he was negative. I'd say some of that has rubbed off on me, but not as bad as him. Funnily he is a toned down version of my grandfather who is even worse. I guess crazy gets passed on doesn't it? I mean my dad can't even say anything positive. Haven't heard one positive thing from here and I'm not kidding. When raising us, referring of course to me, my brother, and sister, he would always say mean things and seldom spared the rod (so to speak). I'm not sure that he enjoyed whipping me with his belt, and slapping me around, but he did it a lot. He did it much more than my mom. Just as an example of how much my mom doled out punishments, she would slap my and my sister for accidentally -- emphasis on accidentally -- spilling milk. She would give us these huge blue plastic cups of milk and force us to drink until we felt like exploding. It must have been at least half a liter in one go. I don't know why she was mental about milk, but sometimes we'd be naughty, and we would sneak to the sink and pour it out when she wasn't watching. I kinda feel bad for being wasteful, but I couldn't handle that much milk. Also, I didn't like the taste either. As an adult, yeah, but not as a kid. ...And so, there you have it, my mom slapping me in the face for spilling milk, and my dad

being worse than that. If you've been through it maybe you can imagine. I wouldn't say it was the worst thing in the world, because sometimes we had laughs. My mom, for example, hitting us with plastic chopsticks and them breaking on our forearms. It's funny now to me as an adult, because I'm Chinese. Can you get anymore Chinese than that? Hitting your kid with a chopstick? I hear that Russians hit their kids with wooden spoons. I'd like to point out, however, that the frequencies of these occurrences might be exaggerated. It's hard to actually reach back into my memories and count how many times, but it felt like a lot. It seems we were being called rude little kids all the time, and being hit. I can just dip into my brain and remember something, like my one of my uncles, who was particularly cruel, would walk us home from school. And me being the smallest, slowest and tubbiest would get whippings on the leg. He would pluck a branch from the tree and whip my behind. Nobody came to my defense. My brother and sister seemed to take delight in me getting punished. But again I guess that's just kids, isn't it? I wonder what my life would have been like if I were never hit, or if I wasn't constantly called names by my dad and siblings, or if I was treated more as an equal (to my brother and sister). Actually, I suppose not getting hit wouldn't have done much for me. I have not been emotionally affected by getting hit by my dad's leather belt. The stuff I tend to gravitate toward is the verbal stuff. The yelling and the name calling. My dad seemed to like the name calling. He would always call me a fat ass or a fat shit or whatever filth came out of his head. He called me names so much that my friends would copy him. I recently looked in my grade 8 year book, and, of the few signatures and "well wishings," they just called me a fat shit. And a loser. They liked to pick on me by making fun of my weight, and whipping my ass with tennis balls because it jiggled. The only person who left a decent message for me, as I recall, was Jenna. She was very pretty. A nice Filipino girl. I didn't like her in that way, but at least she wasn't mean like the other kids. ...Anyways, that was my dad. He seemed to like calling me insulting names. My brother too, but almost never my sister. He adored my sister. He was her absolute favorite. I remember once, when I was -- I forget my age, but I was little -- once when I was little I had asked him for a plastic Rubbermaid box to keep my trading cards in. He bought my sister one for $6.00, but when I asked for one he said no. It doesn't seem like a big deal, but he often did a lot of that favoritism stuff. He wouldn't buy my name brand shoes like my brother or sister. At first he did, but then he decided to cheap out on me, and I would have to get crappy shoes on clearout from places like Biway (keep in mind this place was considered worse than Wal-Mart). The shoes would have really terrible designs. There wouldn't be a Nike swoop on my shoes, like the ones my brother and sister had -- who by the way are respectively 2 and 1 years older than me -- no, they would have weird designs, irrelevant to athletics, like a blue shark. What's a shark got to do with running? My dad didn't care though, as long as I had something on my feet. As a kid though you care, because the kids make fun of you for being poor, and you feel embarrassed for not having what everyone else has. I suppose this wasn't so bad, because shoes are shoes, right? But sometimes the favoritism would be obvious. One time when we went to the mall my dad handed us all money. $5.00 for me...and $10 each to my brother and sister. I got half of what they got, and they weren't even that much older than me. Again, one or two years. Funny thing is my grandparents, his parents, were like this too. They would give us money, except the favoritism was a bit more extreme. If I would get $5.00 at Chinese New Year, my sister would get $10.00, and my brother would get $15.00. I think that's why I've always been stingy, wearing cheap, crappy clothes as an adult, because as a kid I got by on a lot less. I guess that could be seen as positive, right? Still as a kid it gave me a feeling of injustice and unfair. To make up for it, I theorize, I become a rotten shit, and I exploited my mom. I would beg her for things, and throw those stupid kid tantrums, and try getting her to buy me things. But you know what? I don't think I really wanted any of that shit.

What I really wanted was for them to love me the same as the others, and somehow that translated into acquiring materials. Basically, I would need to get the same amount as them, and that'd make me feel a bit better. I say a bit better, because I think there was still some resentment. I resented the fact that I had to whine and be a hard ass to get what I wanted, meanwhile my sister and brother would just ask and get what they wanted. They don't remember it like that but it was goddamn true. My brother especially, being the old, first born of a Chinese family, would get lots of things for nothing. At Christmas he would get the big expensive stuff, while I got much less. Like one time, I think from my paternal grandparents, he got the big Ninja Turtles van, and I didn't (circa 1989 or 1990, I was about 6). We both liked the TV show, but that gift was for him because he was older and first. I was always in a middling position in the family. I wasn't the oldest, first born (a thing of luck for the Chinese I think), and I wasn't the only girl. I was the second, youngest boy, who was the accident that took away their extra vacation time. Not that I'm bitter toward my parents, who I think genuinely tried their best to raise me. Not that I'm bitter toward my siblings, who didn't know better. Not bitter at all. Nope. I don't care about S---- and G------ calling me fat like my dad, and farting on my head, and bossing me around, and kicking my ass on a whim (sister in particular, who once bit my back vampire-style, and said it was my fault, sister who shoved me onto the concrete for walking too close to her, sister who whipped a belt buckle in my head, giving me a coco), I just kinda wonder sometimes how the future would be different. Because I think all the favoritism and past madness has given me an inferiority complex as an adult -- even though I can look back, and reflect, and be objective. I know I'm grown up and I should forget, but I can't. I'm a tad scarred. I still think sometimes, "My brother was my mom's favorite, my sister was my dad's favorite, and I was no one's favorite. Where was I in all of this?" In my dad's words I "had an annoying personality" and I was a "fat ass." The worst thing though is they all deny I was the black sheep. I kinda feel like those Jews who hear people denying the holocaust. Bitch, it happened! And you know what? I hate to admit this, but it kinda eats me up, because later on as I grew up, it only got worse. I found that in teenage-hood, and adulthood, I would never grow to be anyone else's favorite or -- this sounds corny -- #1. I was always being brushed aside, and classed as second or third. Just like my position in the family. One of my best friends growing up (I had two) was particularly bad in this respect. He was a tall white guy, with brown wavy hair, and had quite the temper sometimes. I have no idea how we bonded, because he would call me fat, and occasionally beat me up. Once, while I was bending down, I must have been at least eleven, he elbowed the shit out of me in my spine. I cried, but then he said I exaggerated how much I got hurt. He liked abusing me a lot. I'm not saying I was defenseless, I would retaliate by calling him a psycho, but he gave me a fair bit of abuse. Yet we stayed friends from grade 5 (my best estimate) all the way past high school. I was annoyed a lot of at him because I held him in quite high esteem, meanwhile whenever a girl would come by he would drop me like a stone. That's one of his main interests in life: women. Not that I fault him for following his nature, but I would have liked to be given some priority. I twice asked him to see the Batman movies, the newer ones, and he ditched me for women each time. The movies were: Batman Begins, and The Dark Knight. I wanted to see them both with him, but he thought these romantic movie would be more suitable with the new girls that he met. In our later years he would constantly do that to me. He would ditch me for the next, new shiny object (aka woman). 15 years or so of friendship didn't mean much to him. Though I don't put blame in one direction. I guess the crumbling of our friendship was my fault too, because when my depression really started kicking in, and when I had no money, I had to decline his invites to the pub or whatever plans he had. I really wanted to hang out, but I had no money, and I became very withdrawn, and sad, and did not want that to rub off on anyone. I also didn't want to pretend to be happy and act like a phony.

In addition to this, I should have made an effort to flip the tables. It was always he calling me out. I should have called him out too. I kinda tried, going against my shy-ish nature, but he would always rebuff me. It was very discouraging. And when I made plans with him, that I looked forward to, he'd just change them last minute and hang out with his obviously more important girlfriend. I think my downfall is not having that many friends. I relied on one person to be my soul mate (not in a gay way). Or it could be that we have just naturally grown apart, because we are polar opposites. I am saving myself for marriage -- one that'll probably never happen -- and he has slept with many women, and had numerous one night stands, and used females for sex. I, on the other hand, haven't even kissed a woman. How absorbed, but I would like to save that for someone very, very special. Although I'm reconsidering that. Once again I wonder. I wonder what if me and old "P' had never met. I think I would have been a vastly different person. What if I had made best friends with one of the self-respecting nerds? Things may have gone differently for me. When I think about my personality, I think that I am attracted to people that, in my perception, treat me poorly. I'm like one of those girls, who only dates jerks. And I get it. I get those girls. It's because we both associate love with being treated like rubbish. That's all I've ever had, non-reciprocated, unrequited love. So when I meet someone and they treat me badly, I stick to them, because somewhere in my head I think it's love. If I'm honest, I kinda get off put by people that are too nice to me, because I get suspicious. Very suspicious that they're up to something and that no one could be that nice. And don't some women do the same? They get freaked out when they meet a wonderful guy, who worships, and takes care of them. I guess nobody except a narcissist would want to be worshiped, but that would be grand, at least for a while. I've never been worshiped -- ha, who has? And I've never been loved either. I have never felt that feeling of love. I have been in love. I have not felt like I got a return. I have been in love a total of three times. The first one was when I was 15 or 16. It lasted two years to a girl, who kinda looked like my mom, and then I fell out of love when she (the girl I was in love with that is) called me some cruel names behind my back. Like fat, and nerdy, and stuff like that. I heard it while I was by my locker. She and her friends were were literally talking behind my back. When I knew who was calling me names -- my dear love! (in the most teenage sense ever, because I didn't even talk to her, I just somehow fell in love) -- I burst into tears, and ran away outside. The funny thing is I think it happened due to a misunderstanding, partly constructed by myself. See, we teenagers, for religion class had to do volunteer work as a requirement to pass class. So most of us volunteered at the local daycare center by the church. One particular late afternoon, me and one of my best friends, the black one not the white one, were up for duty with this girl I was in love with. I think her name was Nicole. Anyways, she left her schoolbag, which was baby blue I think, on one of the benches. My friend, let's call him HD, his nickname to this day, decided to steal from her bag. I sure as hell don't know why I didn't say anything, but he nicked a couple bucks in change. The next day I felt so bad about it. I was shy as shit, so I didn't have the guts to explain it to her, and I also didn't want to get my friend in trouble. I concocted a plan. I gave HD $5.00, and told him to give it to her, and say that I was the one who actually stole her loot, and that I was sorry. And he did it. He laid the blame on me, but I wasn't worried. Nope! I was sure she was a fucking saint, and she'd forgive me for turning a new leaf, and we'd all have a good laugh about it, and we would be pals. Instead she decided to call me a "fat, stupid, fucking nerd" behind my back. Funny thing is -- there's that phrase again -- I tried adding her on Facebook. She declined me. Didn't even give me a chance to explain! Whatever, I have absolutely no feelings for her, just distance memories. And that's my first "love." My second love was this brown girl, who I wouldn't call particularly

attractive, but I really had a thing for her, and thought she was pretty at the time. This was near the end of my high school "career" and she was a friend of my best friend. We would talk face to face, and online, because we had classes together, but after some time, it might have been as long as two years, she cut me off completely for being a creepy weirdo...which I don't necessarily deny. Two incidents that demonstrate my ineptitude come to mind. The first is when she invited me to a buffet (or rather I was invited along, as we went in a group). It was at a Chinese restaurant, which is the type of food I like, but I did not eat or at most ate less than usual. I might have been too nervous or I was trying to lose weight for her. I really forget. But what happened was one of the nails in the coffin in our friendship. I decided to play a prank on her...or was it her friend? I think it was just on her friend, her best friend at the time. She was this tiny Oriental girl, with a smooshed up face, who was an in-thecloset lesbian. That caused a bit of tension between us, because she was very cold, and mean to me, due to her jealousy. While we were dining I tried sitting next to her, to be friendly, maybe to patch things up, and she decided to jab me in the leg with her fork. She and my "brown unrequited lover" thought it was a hoot -- but me not so much, plus I was one who liked shenanigans. So, when they got up to go to make toilet, together as girls tend to do, I took her fork and licked its backside and put it back in place. Then I put a bit of pepper in her drink. The other guys at the table laughed. When the two returned they noticed the pepper, no problem. The lesbian who hated me replaced her water. Then I forget how this happened, but when were finished dining, we went outside, and I mooned a pal, who is now as a full fledged adult a chef. Anyways, I wrote about my little prank on this blog I had. Was it called Live Journal? Or Live Blog? I can't fully remember, but I wrote it down, and this girl that I loved read it. Oh. Crap. Either way I'm sure she would have found out. I got reprimanded really bad. Was I called a twisted fuck? I'm sure I was. It didn't offend me at the time because of the fanciful language. I think she apologized too. She was, in truth, pretty nice to me at the time. And I unintentionally developed feelings for, I think in part, because she was the first girl, during my teenage years, to ever show me any sort of real kindness. She was just like that. She was a friendly girl, a bit flirty, and relatively mature for her age. Of course boys being boys don't really tend to mature that fast. I tried to though! I tried to mature. To get her to like me, I also tried getting in shape, and being nicer, and more polite, and friendlier in general. That type of thing is not something I regret, in fact, i thank her for it, but I was still pretty doomed. I was still a fat, greasy haired weirdo, with bad skin, no job, not even the crappy ones, and no car. No. The type she dug had all those things I didn't, and he was tall, and slim, blonde, and Mexican. Quite the opposite of myself. They met at their work place, a store called Winners in Canada. He complimented her by taking her arm and sniffing it...or something like that and saying she was a fresh as lettuce in Spanish? What? I don't get it, but she was attracted to him, and she announced on her blog, which I read that "it was official." What that really meant was they were dating. And they were having sex. It hurt me deeply. It made me cry like a baby. I cried like a baby by my computer, and I dripped a good amount of tears into my keyboard. The next day though, I kinda put it out of my mind. I went back to normal, at least on the outside, and returned to being her friend. But I was always interested in what she was doing. I was always jealous. And if you want to know something unusual, I can tell you that I only realized I loved her when it was all over. That's right. This brown girl who I loved, that i am describing to you, did not immediately make me realize I had feelings for her. I only realized what I felt for her when she stopped talking me altogether, on her assistance. I believe it was related to my computer. (The computer is my main form of communication.) What happened was, I guessed her security question to her e-mail, and found out her password. I went into her account and messed around. I think I messaged some people, and changed her username. Maybe I did it out of spite? Maybe in my subconscious I did it because she didn't love me, because I was

jealous, because I was needy, because I was insecure? Needless to say she was furious. She found out through my best friend, you know -- the one that wouldn't see Batman with me -- and she just blocked and ignored me. That was the end. I was sort of annoyed that my best friend had outed me, but I was more annoyed that he lied to me. He lied and said that he didn't tell anybody. (I told him, and he told another person, and you see how that happens.) What gets me is, I should have known, because he's always been loose lipped -- which inexplicably took me a long time to find out. Curses his dark soul! Just joking. It's really all my fault. 'Course if I didn't want to get caught, I shouldn't have done it, but surely I thought I could trust him. Regardless, that didn't make me hate him or anything. I was always a "bros before hos" (pardon the sexism) type of guy. I feel like that's a rare trait. A lot of men will step over you for the next serving of "punani." My other best friend, HD, was not like this. He had an abundant amount of relationships (sex) and was quite confident of himself, and despite once pulling my pants down in school (called pantsing), and putting mud in my shoe, he did seem to value our friendship, and I appreciate that he was like that. I think we originally became friends in Grade 2. I wanted some of his snacks, which I never got from my own parents, and so I befriended him. I remember that he had pink popcorn. He also used to tell a story of how he was drinking and I pushed the glass bottle into his mouth and make his mouth bleed. I do not remember that at all -- yet I believe him, because that seems like something I would do, not out of malice, just idiocy. I stand by that, because a lot of occurrences that appear malicious are actually not. My dad would be a good example. I firmly believe he always had good intentions in raising his kids, but he couldn't mentally handle it. I'm sure he was one of those about-to-be-parents that thought his children would be doctors, earning Noble prizes, and then he came to face the harsh reality that is bringing up a child, or children rather, three of them to be exact. I remember that he had quite a short fuse, which maybe I have inherited. Once when we finished shopping for school supplies, for elementary school, we piled into his beige van. My sister, being his princess, sat up front, and I sat at the back. Before he was to take off, I looked in my shopping bag and said I got the wrong item. I got the wrong type of mechanical (propelling) pencil. I said it in a fairly dulcet tone. He responded by yelling at me. He called me a bunch of names, including a term I'd never heard before: fuckhead. He called me a fuckhead for wanting to return an item, and made a 9 year old cry. I cried, and we went home, and I heard no apologies. My sister never stood up for me either. Which is not an unusual statement to bring up, because my brother, despite a couple shortcomings, such as being unbearably bossy and controlling, and bad with money, would often help me out. One time he beat up one of my bullies. Well, he wasn't a bully exactly. He was this fat kid (even fatter than me) from El Salvador. I think that was the country. Anyways, he was going through some inner turmoil, because his mother had died from cancer. When I greeted him in the schoolyard, giving him a friend "hi," he decided to punch me square in the face. Other than smiling, I would say it was unprovoked. Of course that smile went away when I cried. According to my best friend's account, my bro heard about it and stalked him after school. He took an umbrella and beat him down Godfather style. Thinking about it makes my eyes well up, because I haven't seen him in a while, and he left Canada when our hairs tangled figuratively speaking. But my older brother was still good to me. Unlike my villainous sister -- who once destroyed my hard-won comic book collection, and made me get lost in a convention center -- he would stick up for me in a big bad way, which sometimes I needed. Although, I must say about the beating he laid on that kid from El Salvador didn't make me feel good. Not at all. It probably made my bro feel better, but for me it did nothing. Taking your own revenge is much more satisfying, and it's best served cold, but I think that boat's well sailed.

(By the way, I was joking about calling my sister villainous. She had her moments. Once I had a pet chicken which died a slow death when it caught infection, I had to feed it hand to mouth, and she bought me a Simpsons Domino set to make my feel better. Not sure whether I thanked her. I appreciated the gesture.) Still I understood why that fat El Salvadorian kid lashed out. Sometimes young people are idiots and they don't know how to express themselves. I wish it wasn't his meaty fist in my face, but that's what's happened, and I totally get it. My grandfather, recently died from cancer too. It was pretty gut-wrenching to the whole family. He lived in our home for three years straight, until he finally died. He got cancer from smoking. It spread from his lungs to his spine, and by his last three months of living he was in a bed, and could hardly move. My mom, and my uncle, the one who whipped me with branches, and my aunt from Sweden, and a couple cousins, took care of him. They had to wipe his ass, hold a bottle to collect his piss, and monitor him for breathing problems. If he had an lung spasms, for lack of a better term, they would need to administer his puffer medicine. Myself, I did not do much. He didn't really like me, because I couldn't speak the same language as him, although on occasion I had to watch him, and help out. Again, not a huge amount, not anything close to my mom, but I was there once in a while when on one else, deemed more competent, was available. I remember the times I had to hold him up to piss, and the time I had to literally life him on the toilet. It was a lot harder than it sounded, because he was not able to support his own weight. I had to carry all his weight in a very awkward position. I can lift 120 pounds like eight times, but having to hold him up for 5 minutes, I got sore. Not that I'm complaining, because morbid it may be, at least I spent a little bit of time with him before he went down south, and six feet under. I must note, however, that he proved to be far less popular than my grandmother, who had died about 3 years earlier. She had loads of people at her funeral, while my grandfather -- on my mom's side to be clear -- only had a small room for viewing. Pretty much only the intermediate and close family were there. The cost of the funeral was expensive too... Over $13,000. If I died, I wouldn't want any funeral. I'm dead. Chuck me into a ditch for all I care, and save your money. Of course no one else sane thinks like that I'm sure. They went to see the body, and touch it, and say one good last goodbye strictly for themselves. I understand that they want to do that. Being deprived of your mom or dad can make you drop that kind of coin. It can also change your personality. I know that the death of my dad's mom, my paternal grandmother, made him go kinda batty. It happened, I believe, in 1993. That was my first death ever, when I was 9, and I cried so hard. I was much softer back then. When my mom's parents died, as a full grown adult, I hardly shed a tear. I learned to "be a man" and control my emotions. Or maybe I didn't learn to be a man. Maybe the circumstances were entirely different. Because my mom's parents did not speak English, and on account of that I didn't communicate to them much. My dad's mom, on the other hand, I did talk too. I wish before she went she could have told my dad not to be a dick to your kids. His personality genuinely changed when she died. As I said, my dad went batty. He went full ahole mode. I thought he was bad before, but it this went full turn. Just as an example, before she died, my dad would make fun of me for stuttering when ordering fast food, which gave me a fear of ordering fast food, and he would mock my childish ideas about not brushing my teeth. I got the idea that you didn't need toothpaste from a dental hygienist who visited the school in grade 2 class. She said that your toothbrush did more cleaning than the toothpaste. But I digress. His personality changed, and he started making fun of me, and teasing me even more than usual. He became one cold mother...or father rather. And I'm not entirely sure about my opinion, but I think he picked on me in particular. One time he twisted my arm behind my back. For what reason? Dunno. I was bouncing around. And one time he tried leaving me at the amusement park

called Canada's Wonderland. It was miles and miles away from home. Was I ten or eleven years old? I must have been giving him attitude because I remember lagging behind, kicking my feet. He had enough of it and he took my brother and sister into the parking lot (car park), where my mother was waiting, and started driving the car away. He was going to leave me behind. He really was. My brother and sister gave me the report. He was stomping on the gas, about to zoom away, and leave me behind to an unsavory character like Jimmy Savile. My mom, being the stubborn Catholic, yelled at him and told him to turn that shit around. And he did. He very reluctantly picked me up. At first I didn't know what happened, but when I found out, I was hurt that I was the only one who had that experience, and I think it might have added to my fear of being lost, which I still have as an adult. Regardless, this was the man that raised me, and here I am as an adult. Through the effort of both him and my mother, and sometimes my siblings, I have survived past the age of 5, which according to Unicef, who keep pestering me for more money, is a big deal. I'm 28 years old -- yes, old, not young -- and I'm dreading turning the big three-oh. I have achieved nothing in my 20s. It has been the most fruitless time of my life ever. I never achieved any of my goals I set out to do. I am a complete, utter failure. I never learned how to drive a car like I wanted; I never went to university; I didn't get buff and sexy; I never got a girlfriend; and namely I never got my business started up. Laugh at me, but I once wanted to open up a healthy, ethical, environmentally focused, fast food restaurant. It was an idea I came up in high school business class. It was called "Healthy Harry's" at first and then changed to "Healthy Harry's Wholesome Hamburgers" (for that gourmet touch). It never took off. I wrote a business plan, which took four full months to do, and I failed to convince anyone to invest. I didn't have enough experience, I was too young, and I didn't have enough capital, and I was really incompetent in everyday, ordinary things, like, let's say, traveling on the road. I did no traveling of any sort, and I stayed in my hovel that I called home. Once I tried to convince Wendy's to pick up my idea, and let me pitch them. I cold called them for a meeting, but they declined my offer graciously. Joke's on them! Their revenue plummeted, they almost went bankrupt, and were scooped up by vulture investors! Is this Schadenfreude? Taking joy in the suffering of others? I apologize, but that is what happened. And nevertheless, I carried on, hoping to strike it rich, with my many fruitless business ventures. A lot them involved technology. I tried grasping at so many goddamn straws. I wanted to go into the fashion industry, I wanted to do movies, I wanted to be a pimp. I really just wanted to amass an amount of wealth. None of it worked. I was an idiot of all trades, master of none. It wasn't a total loss though, because made some friends along the road, a black entrepreneur who I admire very much, and I found out something about myself while in my early 20s. I found out why I wanted to be rich, why I craved money. After falling madly in love with my third woman, I discovered that I only cared for being rich, because -- drum roll -- I wanted to be loved. I thought that if I became financially successful, I would win the respect of my parents, and friends, and everyone would love me. 'Course that's stupid, because anyone who only comes around to you because of your money does not love you. Yet I was a dummy. Even knowing what I knew, I pursued this wealth. I had to. This woman I was in love with pretty rich, and I felt I had to match her success. Plus, maybe through my schemes, I mean my business plans, I could get on her radar. What businesses did I try to pursue? I tried starting a clothing company called "Inglind" and I even tried become a movie director, going to film school on my mom's dime. It was insanely expensive for her at $6,000 for three classes. I learned a bunch though. The experiences were often stressful but fun. I met a Jewish dude there, who I thought, surprise, was a pretty good director. Still waiting for him to become the next Spielberg, so I can say, "Hey, I knew him before he was famous." If you're wondering, I went to Toronto Film College. There were a lot of characters there. Plenty

of different nationalities. The one I liked in particular was the cute Jewish girl Anna, but she deleted me on Facebook. She's a nice person, so at first I wondered why she wanted to cut off communication. I think her boyfriend, whose screenplay I accidentally insulted, had me removed from her friends list. It's okay though. No bitter feelings there. Film College was just a small segment of my life. It was one of those miscellaneous pursuits, including working at a Chinese-run Jamaican bakery, while being deaf in one ear from some type of infection, working at my uncle's restaurant, and working at a candy factory -- all on my mom's insistence really. She was and is always worried about my future. She was pretty miffed when I quit those jobs. I would say I never formally worked for more than a total of half a year. Doing menial tasks made me depressed. i preferred doing things that required my brain, like writing, entrepreneurship stuff, and things like day trading (trading stocks). That was the first thing I did after leaving high school. I became a pseudo-day trader and lost all my money, and some of my mom's money too. It wasn't all bum trades though, because I once invested in Apple and scored a 20% gain. But guess what I did? I sold it because some old farts on website ( told me it was a stupid company. I thought, "Yeah, they're older, they know what they're talking about." And what happened was a lot of lost money, which annoyed me, because that money was intended for my healthy fast food restaurant. When that blew up, I kinda became desperate. Of course I worked for those short periods of time, and I pursued other ideas, like, for example, starting a website, and writing a book about how to get rich. I guess I was really copying "Rich Dad, Poor Dad." Robert Kiyosaki, you know him? He was the person that inspired me to get into entrepreneurship. I received his book from a friend, ead it, and had my mind blown, so to speak. I learned about rich people, and shit like why they weren't evil, and I learned, or rather took in, that I should forget about university or college, and be my own boss. The seed was already inside of me, I believe, so this just gave me confidence. I chucked out all plans to work for the man, and I would pursue my business interests, of this was all to get rich, and to acquire some love. It was a bad idea. Business, while interesting to me, was just not my thing. However, in preparing business plans, and writing articles, and that book about money, called "Rules of the Rich," I became in love with a woman. She was a pale, blonde, freckle faced, brown eyed girl. The most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. A famous actress/ I learned about her on this website called Reddit, and YouTube, and what followed later was a dream. Then more dreams, and more, and somehow I got it into my head that we were soul mates, and I know this is fucking creepy, and bizarre, and weird, and I'm embarrassed, but I fell head over heels in love. It was like nothing I'd ever experienced before. She led me down a career path, if you can call it that, to pursue writing. I wanted to write, to not only express myself, not only to relive my childhood when I wanted to write when I was 7 years old, but to also collide with her world. I genuinely thought that if I wrote, I would get famous, and get her attention. It never happened and it hasn't happened. Although I am happy that I rediscovered writing and am assured in what I want to do. Writing is my calling, even if I'm utter shit at it (for now). And I can objectify to you what I mean. I have been selling e-books on Amazon for 3 years. Can you guess what my total earnings were for ten full length books? For all of those years? Less than $20. Considering that most of my books are priced at 99 cents that means over 1,095 days I have sold about twenty books, made about 1.82 cents per day. Not even 2 cents! All those books I wrote represent nearly a decade of work! And I found this only recently, a couple a days from writing this "open letter." I went on Amazon's crappy website, and added up my totals from I earn less than minimum wage by writing. I earn less than the average worker in Bangladesh. Consider this, someone in the 1800s would earn around $7.00 a week. What am I doing with myself? What am I doing with my life? Why am a pursuing writing? Maybe it's to massage my own ego? I know for sure though one of the reasons was falling in love with

that beautiful actress I never met. She made me chase my star, and the goddamn star is trillions of miles away. Now, I don't feel like writing was a bad thing, I just wish it had turned out the way I wanted. I appreciate the suffering, I appreciate the humility, I appreciate the fact that my father said I was good for nothing and going nowhere in life, and I appreciate what I've mentally endured, for it has made me into a better person, but what I can't stand is being at the bottom of the barrel, with no one to aid my tears, and no one to pat me on my back. I am a man, and as a man, I am not allowed to beg and cry like a destitute dog. I must endure these emotions on my own. Do you know how many times I've wanted to let out my feelings? And tell the truth? But for fear of hurting others, chasing away those who do not wish to be burdened, I kept my mouth closed, and pen dry of ink. Look at this document I am writing now! I haven't even told you all the names of the people I've mentioned. Its generic tags, like mom or dad or the brown girl I was in love with. I have given them the courtesy of protection, but woe is me. (Ha-ha, I've always wanted to say that.) I cannot bear to go on any longer. I have no friends! I've never had a girlfriend! And I am trying to ignore someone that I am madly in love with! But she persists, her haunting eyes, and long lips, and pale skin, they chase me wherever I go. This famous actress, she is on billboards, magazines, TV, my computer, and, on one occasion, even appeared physically when she even visited Toronto for a film festival. I cannot compare myself to her beauty and charm. She makes me feel ugly, cheap, stupid, inadequate. When I look in the mirror, and think about her, and what she might see in me, all I see is a monster.... The Elephant man. I am a human being, not an animal! (That statement makes me question how we treat animals.) Yet I maintained my fancy, fancying the idea of being with her for so, so long. Years. Almost 5 years. 5 years of yearning, 5 years of dreaming, in the day, and at night, thinking about her every moment, remembering her voice and face, from those articles and interviews; I felt like we had an unseen, unbreakable bond. I felt like I deserved to be with her, to have her comfort and happiness, and real love. Though she remains in the dark, I did so many things to try and be with her. I tried to start up my businesses, a few specific to her, I went to film school to be in her line of work, I wrote more screenplays for her, I made a concerted effort to get in shape, and I tried learning French. French, which previously I hated! When I was in grade 7, I met a nasty French-Canadian French teacher. She was big, fat, mean, had a distinctive hooked nose, and liked to wear purple. One day while she stepped outside of class to have a little chat, the class went into a tizzy. I threw a paper airplane. She came back in and yelled at all of us. She asked who threw the airplane. I told her it was me. She verbally forced me to get down on my hands and knees, like a dog, and pick up that airplane with my teeth. I picked it up and threw it in the trash. Some classmates I had, they all laughed at me while I was crying. However -- I'm past all of that, and French has been fun. Learning that basics hasn't been a difficult effort. Au contraire, mon ami, the most difficult effort was when I wrote a book -- just for her -- and it took a full two years of my life to write it, from start to finish. The book was about a topic that I thought she would like. It was about mermaids. Why mermaids? Well, I watched a video of her being interview by Moviefone. In the interview she said that when she was 5 years old, her dad, and brother dressed up like characters from the Little Mermaid for her birthday. That was cute. Then I visited her Wikipedia page and found out that when she was around that age her parents divorced and separated. It broke my heart. I genuinely cried. To me, in my writer's mind, the birthday party that her dad threw for her was his way of apologizing, his way of trying to make up for the impending break up of the family, his attempt to create one last happy memory while they were still all together. I have no idea whether it's true, but that's almost exactly what I thought. That was the moment I

started becoming enamored with this actress. The sympathy, the grief I felt for her, which I had too but in another form, I thought that I could be there for her, and understand her, and see the human side of who she really was. And she is a human, like anyone else, with vulnerabilities, pratfalls, intelligence, and everything you could think of, and in some respects, even more. But this famous actress, as beautiful as she is, is a hard person to be madly in love with. All the troubles I've had as a young man, all the grief, all the deaths, do not add up to the troubles she has given me. I mean that in an emotional sense, she has ripped out my heart, and, unintentionally I'm sure, ripped it out, and eaten it for breakfast. I wish it wasn't this way. I wish I didn't have such deep feelings for someone I've never even met, but I do. I think I know why too. My theory is that, as I am depressed and suicidal, my brain gave me a reason to live. What could be a better reason to live than love? That's exactly what happened. My mind tricked me. It took this pretty actress, stunning really, and fed me with dreams. Such wonderful dreams, where we were married, and we had a family. Three kids. Two girls and one boy. STrangely enough, while having a dream about this actress, I asked the dream gods why I kept having these dreams. While me and this actress were pushing our assortment of children on swings, they said to me, "These are your desires." They were right. All those dreams, all those thoughts, and fantasies meant nothing. They were my desires, what I wanted to keep myself alive. The hundreds of dreams, were nothing but an illusion I had subconsciously crafted for myself. But I'll be damned if it didn't feel so real, and so hurtful. The way it went down was like the Titanic. At first I loved this young actress, for her charm, charisma, intelligence, and because I felt empathy for her. I loved her for being young and innocent, and being a good girl...but as time went on, as she left her magical franchise, she started to deeply change... Or maybe she didn't? Maybe she just became the person she really was? Either way I had to bear full witness to it, and it broke my heart in ways I can hardly describe. Seeing her kiss and touch all those people, hearing and reading about what she did with all these "other men," made me cry. Each and every picture I saw, and video, and article, about her romantic life made me weep. Hard. As when a baby cries. Often times, after having seen her kiss a boy, I would dive into my bed on the floor, cover my head, hug my pillow and let my tears flow out. Some times I would be too numb too move. Some times I would be angry. But after my anger would come tears. I cried so much. No one ever has made me cry in this amount. It feels like I have cried hundreds of times for her, and each time was as painful as the last. I thought that I'd build an immunity to it but I never did. Knowing that I'd never be with her, knowing how she became physical with those money, destroyed a little something inside of me. I don't know what it was, but it put a little void or a little pit in my body. Like it was something that I felt could never be filled. She left me with an empty feeling, yet at the same time, at least when I was first in love, she filled me with so much hope and joy for the world. I knew it was insane to love her, but I couldn't do anything else. She had me wrapped around her little finger. Her shy smile, her lovely British accent, what type of man would be able to resist her? But seeing her showing off her body, slowly stripping off until she became topless, and seeing her kiss all those people, in movies or otherwise, tore me up. I know that a man should not be one to comment on a woman's clothing, or lack of it, but her choices, and how she slowly descended into promiscuity disturbed my mind. Here was my once little angel, my dear dear, who I admired for being contrary and opposite to all the other women in Hollywood, becoming like everyone else, shedding her clothes, showing off her body, tantalizing, seducing, and delighting her perverted fans. When she takes off her clothes, for each bit all the more revealing, her fans talk about how they want to rape her, and fuck her, and lick her pubic hairs, and suck her tits, and do all these nasty things to her...and it makes me sad. She is feeding these people, more and more to their delight, rather than saying, "Screw the trends, I'm going to be different."

However, I am not criticizing her. She's a smart girl. She knows what's going on. She wants new attention for her career. She wants to be seen as a different person. But must it be done in such a way? Must she kiss and be groped by all these men? Must she flash her bits and pieces? All of it makes me cry. I know that she probably won't understand it, and she'll think that I'm a prude, but I want to know what happened to the girl who said she'd never go out in a miniskirt, the girl who said she'd rather be home than at a club, the girl who was just the most adorable, sweet person ever? Now, I cannot reverse the hands of time. She is what she is. She is going to take her clothes off for money, she is going to show off her legs, and her chest for the camera. She is going to wear tight clothing. She is going to kiss boys, she is going to swap fluids, and she is going to be touched, and vice-versa. I ask, "How can I bear this excruciating pain? How can I make myself stop crying, and shivering, and being upset over every thing that she does?" I think the answer is that I can't. I will never get over what she's done. I will always miss the girl I first in love with. I know it's creepy, I know it's bizarre, I know it's foolish, and insane to be madly in love with someone you don't know. Yet here I am, clinging on to an idea, a woman that no longer exists. Someone that brings me more pain than joy. She makes me want to end it all. As odd as it may sound, in a way, I feel like a father. Like a man who lost his only daughter to another man, and to age as she became a woman. I ponder where she is doing, and what sorts of troubles she is getting into, when I cannot keep a careful I. I worry about her, this actress that I love. I constantly fret and have anxiety. If what I saw was disturbing enough to make me cry...for days...then what I cannot see must be far worse, and they give me unrelenting nightmares. Truly, I am withering away as I watch the woman I am madly in love with grow apart from me, and fall in love, and share her body with others. I weep, I mourn, I cry, day, and night, it is never ending. I grieve deeply that I have lost someone so dear. I grieve because, the person who I once thought to be my perfect match, is not at all like me. She is not my kindred spirit, she is not my soul mate. She is not for me. She is in fact my opposite, and she is not a virgin like myself, and she is not someone who has never touched the soft lips of someone else. She has a thorough amount experience, while I am here playing with myself, alone, believing that a kiss should be something special that cannot be given to just anyone, especially for a paycheque. Here I feel like the only man, who believes that a person's body is sacred, that it should only be shared with someone special that you truly care for. Yet she shares her body with many, and it makes me so sad. I wanted to be her first, and only, her first and only, and everything. Now what am I? Even if we were to meet, even if there were a chance, I could never forget all she'd done. I would know that I would be nothing special to her. For me she would be my first, for her I would be the thousandth kiss -would I not? I would be a nobody. Though that harsh truth is that I am less than that. All I am to her is a stranger, who cannot understand what is going on, why I feel this way, why I ache any time she touches the hand of another, or even when she hugs someone. So here, after being rejected, by her, by society, by myself, I see what I truly am. I am a monster. A lonely, hideous monster, jealous, angry, bitter, and sad, who wishes that for what he never had he will die a quick and painless death. He ends his letter with much remorse, much regret, wishing that he could have been her one, her all, her first kiss...her first of everything. He wishes his life had been different. "Forget it," said the monster in the mirror, "that will never happen. You cannot turn back time. You cannot relive the past. You cannot even change yourself. You are an unlovable, miserable, creature, who will never be pleased. You are covered in a tar that is your soul. Accept your fate. Let it go."

"Goodbye," I say as I wave to my reflection. FINI

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