• How are all of my tasty muffins? Chocolate chips and patty pans still in place, I hope. Pitch black at seven thirty am on a Sunday morning? No, that’s not right. This isn’t what I wanted. But I got out of bed anyway, straightened up and took a spray. Hot water running all over my body. The smell of Grapefruit and Lemongrass body wash. Ahh. Lather, rinse and dry. King and Queen going to a wedding. Condescending and Trumpet are still home. There isn’t much to do. I’m wearing my usual home attire. That’s right my cuppycakes, no pants and a big baggy oxford shirt. Nothing exciting. Ah, what a boring life you lead.
    To be honest, I told myself not to wake up this morning. Yes, partly due to the fact that it was very very dark and I thought that it was three in the morning, but mostly because there was this ache in my chest that was spreading all over my body. For the umpteenth time. No, I’m fine. Thank you for you concerns, I really don’t need to see a doctor. I’m just missing Mr. Everything again. That’s right, for the umpteenth time. Sometimes I wonder if it is really okay that Mr. Everything has this kind of effect on me. I’m not entirely sure that it’s healthy. It isn’t doing my emotion or my Sensible any good, though, and I think that maybe, just maybe, I think about Mr. Everything more than I really should. Ever. But alas, Mr. Everything is on my mind every day. And I really don’t think I mind that much. I cannot, at this point, imagine absolutely anyone there in place of him. This is the way I like it to be. Even if missing Mr. Everything so much that the emotional pain becomes physical that I start crying, it’s completely fine.
    A lot of people would think I was starting to write a novel about teenage love and how in the end my man and I would end up all fine and dandy and we elope or find better lives or end up falling more in love with each other than we initially have, but really, I’m not.
    I’m the kind of person that would like to tell people a lot of things but I don’t really have any courage to. I like to write, although I’m not very good at it, so instead I like to post letters to people. Letters they don’t know about. Letters they will never find out about. Letters that I really wouldn’t like them to know about. As an added precaution, I replace the names of people by what I think about them. Although, I don’t think that it’d matter because if the letters by happenchance were to fall into their lovely little laps, then they would know it was them. Oh my, how they would know. Everything.
    Mentioning Everything, I’d like to return to the topic about Mr. Everything. Mr. Everything a marvellous kisser. They are the types of kisses that older people would like to describe as having sparks sent all over your body. Though it’s not really like that. Electrons do repel each other, after all. It’s rather that I’m plunging my face into a bucket of chocolate mousse. I don’t think that I have ever met a person before that has made me think of him as on a different level to other boys. I’m sure I’ve never met a person who makes me feel as though I have plunged into a vat of happiness and chocolate mousse, though, and that is what makes me happy. Still thinking about that shower are we? Hmm, am I happy enough to hop into the shower with my Mr. Everything, you ask? Things of this nature are not for your delicate strawberry and chocolate frosted minds.

    So, my darlings, my first letter would of course be to Mr. Everything. The Mr. Everything that makes me cry, but makes me laugh twice as often and makes me happy with every little quirk and implied chemical imbalance in his mind.

    You have it right. I miss you. Again. ‘You and everything about you,’ naturally. When I replay the moments in my mind it all seems perfect, so utterly perfect that it brings a smile to my face. But that makes me miss you, more and more.
    When I found out you read my blog every time that you’re online, or close to it, I was really happy. It’s not only her anymore. I apologise for getting jealous, or whatever that feeling was. She is supposed to be my friend. I should know that you know better. I should understand that you have no idea that the fact that it is her makes it even worse. I have admired her for as long as I had known her.
    It even hurts that you have the same favourite colour. I suppose that I should still be aiming to try and fit into her beautiful, red, sparkly buckle-up shoes.
    But the fact you held her dear really hurt me, you realise. Even though I always knew that every other girl would make a better girlfriend than I, it still hurt. Whenever you happened to say ‘I love you’ you forgot to mention ‘and her’. And so, it hurt. More than anything I think has ever hurt me before. Even more so than all the things that happened with The Big Ex that hurt me, combined. Though I will never let myself be hurt over loving someone ever again. That was the person I’m trying to completely leave behind. That’s the person not even you know about. That’s the person I know that you would never come to love. The person I would never even make an effort to try to come to love.
    And that’s when I realised, I really do love you. And maybe it is for more than my own good. I don’t think it is healthy to ever love anyone this much in her entire life. It is a lot of strain on my soul, and my body. Now that you’ve told me that at some point I wasn’t the only one in your eyes (and I still am not one-hundred percent sure that you still do not feel anything for her, as you told me you didn’t anymore) I will always have a part of myself that constantly needs to be reassured.
    And because of this, right now, yes, I’m asking you to prove it. Right now, I don’t believe that you love me. Forget about BlueBird for a second. Right now, I need an answer, truly, truly.
    Do you mean it when you say that you love me?
    I noticed that the day after you couldn’t even look me in the eyes properly. It’s true that at the time I felt as though you’d ripped open my heart-shaped box, and felt as though I was going to break down and cry, and so I cannot be sure as to why you sometimes couldn’t look me in the eye.
    Is it because you were lying? Or because you were afraid that if you looked into them, you’d see pain and nothing more and begin to cry yourself? And no, crying doesn’t make you less of a man. To me, Mr. Everything, it would make you even more of one.
    When I heard your breathing over the phone that night, I knew. You were crying for me. Yes, for me. That is what I like to think. At that time, yes, I realised, you do care. You do. You really, honestly do. This is what I thought, at that time.
    I don’t know how much longer you expect me to put up with your constant jokes about other girls. Do you expect me to think being in love with you is easier than munching on a stick of cheese? At times like these, I don’t even know if it’s okay to think that you’re lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely!
    …I think that there should be a lot more that I want to say to you, but right now, I want you to hold me.
    Despite not feeling that you love me (and no even slight sliver of romantic feeling for BlueBird) and that I feel as though I am going to break down and cry until I fall asleep because of the physical toll of crying.
    I want you to hold me.
    The flowers you gave me on Valentine’s Day are dying, too.
    The red, red roses.
    If your love is going to be a red, red rose, I don’t want it anymore.

    I think that writing that letter took out the happy from my joy joy. I’m thinking of belle-of-the-ball BlueBird again. Especially because that has made me look up to her even more than I already had.

    We are supposed to be friends. I’m sorry that I think that of you. But I cannot look at you the same way. At some point, you could have taken away my Mr. Everything. But I for one, know that you want someone flawless. I don’t like to say it, but people like that don’t exist. You are the closest thing to ‘perfect’ I’ve ever seen. You look beautiful all the time. I bet you’d even look attractive lying in a hospital bed. You’re the type of beautiful everyone wants to take a piece out of and force down their throats. You radiate BlueBird. And that makes you popular. It makes people like you. It makes people notice you. And people say something when you’re gone. The kinds of things I would never attempt to hope for.
    Mr. Everything is the closest thing to perfection I’m allowed to say I’m allowed to keep for myself. And at some point, you could have taken him away from me. I think that I speak to you out of paranoia. I am not sure what I am paranoid of, but the fact that he still talks to you hurts me so. The fact that you can hurt him hurts me. The fact that he valued another girl over nearly all others (I say nearly because I am still unsure if he favoured you more than me) hurts more than anything. So I always have to see how be-you-tee-full BlueBird is. ‘Oh my, the rays of light shining from out your rear end is fading. Shall we top it up with another ego boost from your many fans? Sound good? Oh, look. Like a beacon in the night. BlueBird, you are marvellous.’
    There is always a boy. There is always someone. That is what we always say, all the time. The fact that you had even the slightest chance of taking my Mr. Everything away from me, yes my Mr. Everything! Mr. Everything, the love of my life thus far, the Mr. Everything that proclaims his love many times over and says he will never leave me, yes, that Mr. Everything that tells me that he will love me for the rest of eternity. Me, yes, me! And you could have taken him away!
    Oh, how the tears rushed out and rocked my body.
    Perhaps I am saying this in a pathetic attempt to somehow make myself feel better about the whole situation. It is not your fault but I feel an overwhelming need to blame you, blame you and him. If anyone is at fault, it would be me. Perhaps he wouldn’t have been tempted if I had been a better person.
    I am not sure whether or not to believe him when he says that he had stronger emotions toward me, anyway, as it may have been something he believes he has to say, as it was his duty as a ‘boyfriend’ to make his ‘girlfriend’ feel better, feel loved, feel needed no matter what level of lying had to be employed. I would like to talk to you about this, I think. I do not know why you of everyone, or if I would like to speak to you, but we are supposed friends, and I have honestly very much admired you for quite some time.
    You are so beautiful. Flawless. Everything of that sort comes to mind when someone mentions BlueBird. When you leave, people kick up a big fuss. People miss you, people cry when you are not around, people go to you first to resolve your problems. If only I had that kind of attention. If only I was a person of such charisma. I want to be able to try on your red sparkly shoes, and have someone tell me for once that I looked good in them. Oh, I admire you so. You are everything that I have always aspired to be as a person. You are one that shines with overwhelming beauty. Even if your beauty is shallow, it is enough to not let people hurt me deeply as I’d never let them close enough to. Ah, to live a life like that.
    And this girl that I admire so much could possibly take away my Mr. Everything.
    That, BlueBird, is what hurts the most.

    BlueBird is still my friend. BlueBird and her shooting star shoes. BlueBird and her beautiful, beautiful face, lovely, lovely skin. BlueBird and her non-existent flaws. But really, my meringue sweeties, I think I have met more beautiful people. Beautiful people with many, many flaws. People with scars and bruises covered up with band-aids. These people were not raised in a life of bliss. These people are, I think, more beautiful than BlueBird. Even though the sun does not shine from out their rears, they don’t even seem to seek the BlueBird-esque charisma that I so desired. I’ve lost the plot for wanting to be beautiful on the surface more than what people say is ‘really important’.

    Oh, I’ve been listening to a lot of Tokyo Jihen lately. They’re a very good band, it is almost like a miracle cure to my emotions over BlueBird. Let me tell you, there is almost nobody that she knows that doesn’t absolutely love her. She is perfection on a whole different level. I wouldn’t go so far as to say BlueBird is the epitome of all that is superficial, but my, my, I am convinced that the sun has found a new place to shine. The fact she acts (yes, I said acts) modest, I think would only make people love her even more. I know for a fact that my very own top-shelf purple-label Mr. Everything has told her he loves her. Oh, with all honesty, the impression that I was under was that he loved me!
    Though if I were to try and throw Mr. Everything a bone, I did have an amazingly horrible dream last night.
    Well, if it were an amazingly horrible dream, it would be a nightmare would it not? Now I think about it, the last time I had a ‘nightmare’ was when I was even younger. But I’m sure you want to know about the one I had now, cuppycakes. I was having an affair with two men! Two! I woke up utterly dumbfounded. I am not implying that Mr. Everything and I have engaged in any behaviour of such lascivious behaviour, as we haven’t gone so far as to make defeat of each other’s virginity, so you could argue that it was not an affair, although to me it was, because I would never even entertain the idea of letting my lips touch anyone other than Mr. Everything’s. I think I understand why I had a dream of this though, as I remember earlier on in that day that I thought for a second “I would never cheat on Mr. Everything”. Oh, rambling. Sorry. Sorry. Though, I think that these thoughts were brought on by housing a few insecurities towards BlueBird, but nonetheless, I consulted my Dream Dictionary;

    Adultery/Affair
    Dreaming of an affair can indicate your need for excitement and stimulation. To dream of your partner committing adultery brings out your own feelings of sexual inadequacy or insecurity with emotional commitment. It may also be making aware of your temptation in some area of your life where ‘cheating’ or some other dishonest method can be employed to make your life more exciting. This dream in this case is warning you to resist this temptation and not to stray from your honest ways. An affair with famous or powerful people signifies that it’s fame or power that you crave in your life.

    Kissing
    This dream tends to symbolise a desire for intimacy, whether domestic or erotic in nature…
    Etc., etc. I suppose that this may be somewhat true, as while Mr. Everything has been overseas I’ve been missing a lot of the things that the both of us do together. It is not that I am tempted to cheat on him as compensation for him not being here, but I do miss him dearly.
    Oh, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers are also a cure for the soul.
    Especially with the words “Your mouth was made to suck my kiss”.

    I’ve considered the options with Mr. Everything many a time. He makes me cry. He never says the right things. He says he will. He never does. He tells me he loves me properly. He doesn’t make an effort to prove it. He never really bothers to make sure that I’m fine.
    He makes me happy, though. He makes me happy. I haven’t really smiled properly in quite a while. I don’t mind that he hurts me. He makes he happy more often than he makes me sad. He remembers important things. He’s my favourite kind of quirky and happy all rolled into a tall, lanky, lame little man. A man who is a little bit tall and a little bit short. A little bit lame but a little bit absolutely-fan-tabby-hooby-delici-scrum-diddly-um-oso.
    I know that he will constantly hurt me even after this. But it’s reassuring. It helps me remember I’m still human and that he is as well, and that other people make mistakes and that sometimes people will make mistakes so that they can find the one thing they can do right.
    That is why eating a big tub of Homer Hudson Cookies and Cream flavoured ice cream all by yourself straight out of the tub isn’t really so bad. Nor is leaving the spoon inside for next time.