Unsent Letters

Do you know how to speak Internet? (Danisnotonfire + Jacksgap = ♥.)
I’m not good with feels. At all. So instead of telling people that I can’t even, I write it out. Like this.
(And I change the names. Amy and Bob are my standard Average Joe names. Or, you know, I could just call them Joe… I like Bob better.)
—
You really loved your girlfriend, didn’t you?
And somehow, it feels like everything I say, you compare to her.
I’ve never broken up with someone. Hell, I’ve never gone out with them in the first place. But I know it can’t be good to be this… this upset.
You’re not talking to her now, and I’m not sure that’s a good thing. Because even if she made you think otherwise, girls like having friends. And I don’t know you that well, but I’d bet she wanted to stay friends.
Girls are good at lying. We have to be. We lie about our face (“Of course I’m not wearing make up!”). We lie about our friends (“I love them all!” We don’t. Trust me on that one). We lie about who we like and don’t like, because it’s safer that way. We don’t get hurt. Everyone’s happy.
Except we’re not. Because we lie so much, no one knows how we really feel. And we get upset when no one understands, when deep down, it’s our fault.
Maybe you should try talking to Amy. I know you have already, but maybe you should try again. And maybe this time, she’ll listen.
I don’t believe in altruism. (Aw.) And I do have a reason for saying this other than the fact it might make you happier (well, less upset). You feeling better is the main reason, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t others.
It’s complicated (when isn’t it?), but it essentially boils down to two things: “It hurts when you’re upset” and “I’m not Amy, and I don’t like being compared to her”.
I’m not jealous of her. I’m really not. If you have Skype, I will say it to your face.
I just don’t like being compared to something – or someone – I’m not.

I’m sorry. I know it’s none of my business. I know that I’m not going to send this, so it’s not fair of me to say it. And I know that you really do miss Amy.
But to be honest, I’m tired of lying.
I like you. And one day, I’ll find a way to show you.
—
It doesn’t necessarily make me feel better, but it helps. And sometimes, that’s enough.

Love always,
Victoria

Disenchantment

Well, I was there on the day
They sold the car for the Queen
And when the lights all went out
We watched our lives on the screen
I hate the ending myself
But it started with an alright scene.

- My Chemical Romance, Disenchantment

So there’s this boy.
…No, hear me out.
There’s this boy, and, well… yeah.
I like him. And apparently he likes me, but to be honest, I doubt it. I’ve known him since I was three, I think I’d… Okay, fine. Other people are trying to convince me he likes me, but I don’t think he does. Just because… well.
I’m not explaining myself well. Look. Here’s a letter I wrote (as advised by my fellow elephants). It was a few months ago, but it holds up. The only difference is that X Took a Level in Jerkass (I’m pretty sure she’s a Tsundere too, just I don’t know which type) and we don’t talk as much now. So we don’t walk with the boys.
 -
Dear N,
You confuse me.
At our old school, you’d relentlessly take the mick. We were rivals, but I was winning. On the rare occasion you’d beat me, you’d be so unbearably pleased that I’d vow never to let it happen again. You’d make up little songs about me, songs laughing snidely at me, and I’d try not to show how much I hated it when everyone else started singing them too.
That was then.
Now, it’s… different. You still poke fun at me. A lot. And it still hurts. And I still ignore it.
But that’s the end of the similarities.
When my guard slips, when my emotions flutter across my face, when anyone could see how much your words hurt, I’d say you were appalled if I didn’t know you. You take back what you’ve said immediately. You look like… like you actually care about me.
When I moved house, we walked down the same road for our secondary school. You’d laugh at me for being a ‘larry’ when I got to the top of the road early, before X and Z got there. The first year, I deliberately avoided you there.
Now we’ve started Year 8, X and I walk with the boys. It suits all of us. And we end up walking down our road for maybe a minute together each day.
You always think of some excuse to talk to me. And you don’t laugh at me. We actually talk. For a minute a day, three or four days a week.
And every day, every lesson we have together, I catch you watching me.
And I’m confused.
But I think I like it better this way.
-
That’s as coherently as I can explain myself.
But that doesn’t explain everything. It doesn’t explain how I feel when he’s around. How whenever he’s hurt, I’m hurt. How my heart skips whenever he speaks to me.
Fun fact: I don’t know why they call it butterflies. It felt like my ribs were being bludgeoned open by a sledgehammer. Or something.
Maybe not a sledgehammer. Maybe something like a tennis ball.
In case you missed it*, I’m not good at this ‘explaining myself’ thing.

So there’s this boy. And I like him. And maybe he likes me.
And I’m confused.
Love always,
Victoria

* ‘In case’ is a strange phrase. In case you missed it. In case. Maybe it’s short for ‘in the case of’. In the case of you missing it. A hypothetical phrase. See, this is why I have no life. I spend my time being confused by the English language and boys, and relating my life to TV Tropes.

Logic is subjective.

Disclaimer: I do not promote or glorify any form of self harm.

Before I start:

1. Yes, this post is early.
2. There’ll still be one on Sunday.
—
Earlier in the week, one of my internet friends (wait, there are other kinds?) told me that no one understood her logic. This logic can be found here.

She thinks that’s not logical? Has she ever met me? (Answer: no.)

Self harm is not logical. Cutting yourself – and feeling better after it – is not logical. Craving the feeling of blood trickling out of a wound you made is not logical.
Does that stop me? No.
It makes me feel better, even if it’s only for the fleeting moment I cut. It makes me forget reality, even if it’s only for the few seconds the knife carves a message into my wrist. It makes me feel like I’m in control. That’s not logical. I know it’s not logical.
But it doesn’t stop me.
I have my reasons for cutting. They’re not logical, but they make sense to me.

Everyone has their own set of rules they want to live by. These are some of mine. They won’t make much sense to anyone else, but your rules won’t make sense to me.
Things don’t need to be logical to make sense. Accept it, move on.

Love always,
Victoria