Five

Dear Cunt,

How much do you have to hate yourself? On a scale of one to one hundred, how easy would it be to find yourself in the late thousands? How do you have the power to smile every day? Enjoy the tingling feeling in your lower stomach? Breathe? Exist? How?

Don’t tell me, you’ll spoil it. Cover your ears, hide behind glasses, drink and smoke it away. It’s what I do. It’s how I wake up and live every day. Make yourself pretty and argue it’s for your own good. Say you want to see something nice when you check yourself out in a mirror. Come on, we’ve been through this, see my second letter.

You’re pathetic, how many times do I have to tell you this so that it gets through the layers of hair you put hairspray on? There’s nothing there for you, there’s no way you will ever be happy. Live with it. Accept it, embrace it. Fuck yourself up every week, every six months when you decide to fall in love. Draw petty pictures on your walls and then paint them  over, as if that will make it all better. Pretend it works. Think of the easy way to get in someone’s life and fuck it up because ultimately, you’ll fail. You won’t fuck anyone over. Other than yourself, obviously. You’re a pro at that, aren’t you? All that wasted talent, all those nights you like to think there’s a great future waiting for you.

Spoiler: death is the only thing that’s in the future. Heartbreak that you cause yourself.

That lovely person who could make you happy? You’ll murder him, like you murdered all the others. Go, instead, for the fucked up option; go for the pain. Not physical, that’s alright. The ultimate emotional fuckery that you can only do to yourself. Such are the lengths of your hatred. That is the level of thousands I was talking about.

They’ll move on, and at the end of the day, you’ll stand alone, fancying yourself to be Tarja. You’ll die alone and it’s all your fault. We’ve been through this as well. Wow, do you see the circles I keep talking in whenever I’m writing to you? There’s nothing more. Nothing than your inability to exist in a normal way. What is normal? I don’t know, babe; all I know is not what you are.

You’re gonna be Julia Roberts in My Best Friend’s Wedding. But she had another friend, she had someone to call and rely on. You have nothing. You weaved so many patterns of deceit that there is literally nowhere to turn anymore. You’ll be the maid of honour who will have flirted and or fucked the groom. And you’ll be a maid of honour because of a lie, not because you’re friends with the bride.

No one. There’s no one who cares for you. I don’t care for you. No, I do, but I abuse you and beat you up. And you come back, like a good little Cunt. You like it when I do it, don’t you? You like when everybody else does it. You like hurting yourself, not in the physical slit-your-wrist sort of way. In the making your own life miserable. A living personal Hell.

I’m considering telling you to have children, just so the line of bad decisions doesn’t end. Just so there’s someone to watch doing this. I’ll write to them too, I just hope you have a daughter. It would be upsetting to watch a boy and eventually a man do this to himself. You know how I favour men.

Don’t ever kill yourself, you need to be the recipient of these letters. There’s no one else I’d write so passionately to.

Lots of love (none at, really),

Jo.

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