Dear Meat,

I used to being busy all the time, and now that I’m not I feel like I’m forgetting something. -M

Dear Sam,

Dear cougar,

I know you don’t like that name. I know it makes you feel like you’ve done something wrong. But you know I’m just messing around. As I have done always. It was mutual, we both wanted it.

I never know why I do any of the things I do; and this includes writing such a letter as this, knowing that it’ll just lie in some digital archive in anonymity until the internet dies - probably being judged by some Grammar Nazi sitting there twiddling his thumbs and scoffing – shut up you, you twat.  

But write I will, because you’ve been on my mind a wee bit in the past week or two and this seems expressive and shit.

I guess it started when you came back to us. You’d been away for months. (A year maybe, could have been two who knows I’ve been doing stuff. Drunk) But however long it had been, you came back to us, for a while. It was only maybe, say an hour? But it was nice to see you again. Nice news that you were single again.

I hated you that night though. And when did you start doing drugs you silly bitch? Was it supposed to be you growing up? You’ll always stay silly. You sitting jaw clenched eyes blazing hands twitching – scratching. You’re horrendous. Perhaps I’m being too cynical. Or judgemental as you would call me.

Maybe.

But whatever you’re attitudes to drugs are now, it was good seeing you. After that bug-eyed bitch stole you. She’s not even pretty and she has huge ugly eyes and she’ll never be a model. I’m going off topic now though (I don’t actually have a topic). You looked nice, as always. You do have such a pretty face. Petite body, soft skin, blah-blah. It’s a shame you have a mind to match though. Empty and childish. You’re nearly nineteen soon. God that’s scary.

We’ve known each other for a long time now. Old friend. I’ve only just realised. It seems weird now. How we met. You fancied me. I was thirteen. You were fifteen. God that’s strange. What where you thinking dear?

Was I some sort of grown up kid? Maybe I was super fly for my age who knows.

I always remember lunch. Walking past you and your friends, and hearing them whispering about me to you. Telling you to talk to me, to say hello - to say anything. Yelling my name as I shuffled past too embarrassed to even glance over.

But as it turned out you introduced yourself and we spoke. A lot actually. It made me feel pretty good - knowing that I was speaking to ‘that really hot girl’ two years above and that she liked me.

But we spoke more. We grew to know each other over the years. We had relationships with other people, got upset, had laughs, flirted, walked about and kept speaking. We fell out of contact and came back into contact a few times, spoke on the phone ‘till sun rise and so on.

My best friend once even said he envied me because I had you. You created my ego.

Then, as things go, we met up in the summer after not having seen one another for a while. And things got intimate. We grew closer, flirting actually began to lead places and sex appeared. We were young then. Silly and curious. Our generation grew too fast. You loved me. I don’t know how I felt about you. Maybe it was purely lust. But we went onwards, you asked me out which says a lot. We went out and it was pretty good. For a while. But then I met that other girl. The psycho (as I would only find out when it became too late). She appeared as something more. She was intelligent, and she was cool as fuck. She had that raw edge about her. That flare. She loved movies and music. She read great books and enjoyed people. You never liked any of that. And you found out about her, my talking to her. How jealous you got. I don’t blame you now though; I know I did at the time. But I know now how you must have felt. Being so in love with someone you actually couldn’t sleep for weeks when we had a fight, even when things were resolved. And I was there talking to some other girl who I had more in common with. She wasn’t as good looking as you though. That’s something right? And I couldn’t stand it any longer. The jealousy. It became constant and I lost interest in you.

And the story goes as one would expect. We broke up and I went to her. You cried and slept beside your mother for a month. Must have been bad, I know that now.

But she turned out to be a psycho. A well hidden one. And we didn’t last long. The sentiment wore off and I saw how fucked up she was. So we broke up. It was say, a month and a bit? At most that.

I remember the first time we hung out again after her. You cried because you were so happy. We didn’t have sex that night. I get that. We did though a couple other times. It was always fun.

But you disappeared for a while soon after that. We grew up a lot in that time. We changed everything about ourselves. I even got shorter hair, which was a neat change. And now that you’re sort of back, I guess I can admit to myself that I still kind of liked you. But I’d be lying to myself if I ever said I wanted to be back with you.

I told you a lie that night, the night you came back. Not to you exactly. I told your friend. I told her to tell you I still liked you. And I admit to you now it was a lie. You know this. I was slightly drunk, and you looked hot. And the fact that I knew that I could have you made it easy. But then you were being dragged away from us again. By her. She wanted to go off and score some more of that shit. What even was it, drone?

It’s sort of good though, that it never – it’s good that you left again. Because I was having a good time talking to a new girl. She’s pretty. She’s intelligent and she likes good movies and music. And this time she’s not a psycho (I made sure this time) and she almost got annoyed at me that night. Because of you.

So I guess whilst I’ve been sitting here smoking that cigar I had left over from last week, drinking ginger ale and listening to Dizzy Gillespie (the new girl likes jazz too, which makes her marriage material) I’ve realised that although I might want you, I know that I don’t at the same time. I don’t want you to come back. I don’t want to like you and I don’t. I didn’t want you back that night. I wanted your body back. I wanted the ecstasy and sweat and scratching and screaming. I didn’t want you. But this new girl is good. She’s good to chat to, she listens to my ramblings about wanting a world still set in the fifties and she wants to do all the same stuff like travel everywhere and met everyone interesting and see places - and she likes my spontaneous writing sprees where I get really into a subject and just talk about it for ages and rant and ramble and go on and on and on about anything and everything wonderful. And she’s prettier than any other girl I’ve been with lately. I think she’d work out well.

Ciao,

- The Starving Hysterical Mad.

Dear T,