Two

Dear Cunt,

Whatever were you thinking? Whatever are you thinking now? All the time you were putting your make up on you kept saying it’s for your own pleasure. You said, you say right now if someone asks you, that it’s not for him. “Fuck it,” you say, “I wanna be pretty because I feel like it.”

Yes, you fucking cunt. You feel like it because you hope he’s gonna be there. You don’t even know. You hold that brush so tight it could break, all the while hoping with everything you have — which is not much, you disgusting insecure lonely idiot — that he shows up. And then you’ll smile when you think he looks your way, trying to charm him from a distance. Guess what? This is not a cheesy book where some guy falls in love with you over your smile. It’s not even a pretty smile, with your uneven teeth and the way it screams ‘fake’ a mile off.

Your life is not a wonderfully written text. You won’t catch a guy’s eye just by being lovely. He won’t approach you because you have three coats of mascara on. Yes, you’re pretty but he knows better. You’re intelligent and he doesn’t like it because he can’t fool you. You’re too smart for your own good: you can’t even fool yourself. You know deep down just how pathetic and miserable you are. You’re pretty but it doesn’t matter. You’re ugly in so many other ways; and that puts him, all of then off.

And it’s upsetting because this was not supposed to happen. This was not supppsed to be your life. This was not supposed to be you. How often did you think, while growing up, that you were destined for greatness? You always hoped great things would happen to you. You always believed it, actually. And here you are, facing the prospect of a 9 to 5 job. Alone. You’re looking at a lifetime of being alone. Miserable. Disgusting. On meds. On meth.

I’m writing this to you because no one else will tell you all this. No one else will look at you and just scowl; no one will tell you just how fucking pathetic you are.

I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t want to think about it either. I wouldn’t want to accept it either.

I’m writing this to you because I love you.

Best hopes (none at all, really),
Jo.

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