GAETSS: Real Letters to Real People
Real Letters to Real People
6/27/07
Dear Drew,
I’ve wanted to write this letter, or at least say some of these things to you forever, and I figured a note was the best way to be getting on with it. Call me puerile; it’d probably be the truth. So here I go. I guess I’ll start at the beginning, like most good stories do.
I’m pretty sure it was the second semester of my eighth grade year. I lie; I know it was. Hell, I was pretty stalkerish about it all, really. The crush, I mean. You remember? I got Catherine to introduce us. I thought you were cute, reminded me of a British actor I’d seen (Get Real, he was in). You went to CSLA and I was at CSAS, but I thought about you after that. We met at All-County Band. TJ was gone by then. Too bad. But I digress.
We had Spanish together some year. Twice, actually. In ninth grade with Sra. Hughes, I remember, on one of the first days of classes, you were behind me on the way out the door and I body-checked you, shoulder to your chest. Probably hurt like hell. I don’t think you could’ve called us fast friends. We had español together with Sra. Richardson the next year. I didn’t hesitate, even then, to call her a cunt (and many other colorful things, I’m sure. That bitch would ruin me two years down the road.).
Honestly, things between then and senior year are a little blurry, even to stalkerish lil’ me. You liked a string of dumb bitched, kissed Chetna after our Junior Prom (some reward that was for the girl who’d planned the damn thing). In any case, I was prison-locked - solitary confinement - in the friend-zone.
Halloween, senior year. Sketchy online conversation ensues. I don’t wanna fool around if you don’t want to be my boyfriend. I think you’ve always been ashamed of me. Smart but not pretty. Only good as a sounding board and because I won’t judge the size of your cock (I would’ve, by the way). Good enough to pour your heart out to in private, but never friends in public. I’ve thought of Dirt Little Secret as “our song” for years. I’ve digressed again, I see. In any case, you realized it was all a mistake and told me as such in the morning. I wish I hadn’t begged to be your girlfriend.
After Senior Prom, your house. You brought Shannon (huge mistake, as I recall), I brought Alex. You had told me to ask John. He’d told me to ask you. You were both ashamed of me. My self-esteem’s great now, if you wondered. Anyway, you try to whip it out, as they say, after everyone’s asleep, and I stopped you. I’d seen your hard-on earlier, after I’d touched your thigh (total mistake, by the way). Maybe you were ashamed for liking someone as hopeless as me? Desperate is the better guess; that’s what you basically told me, at least. No “word magician” with your cock out, are you? Oh, I was sure you hated me after that. No one at school knew why I was crying in the middle of the hall during lunch a week later. Like it was my damn fault.
Stop kidding yourself, alright? Everyone else may think you’re great, but you fucked me over and strung me along for more than four years. Four years of hell. I had an eating disorder (to my best estimation) during that time. Some friend you were for noticing. I’ve felt inferior to everyone at least once since then. Why could you like anyone, everyone, but me? Your secret little cocksucker. You wished. You may have made me feel like shit that whole time, but no more. I deserve way better than a manipulative bastard like you.
Let’s still be friends, okay?
P.S. I won’t spread your little secrets as long as you don’t tell anyone that I ever gave you a second glance.