Name: Brillemeister 2006-10-28 0:20
A girl in my tiny 6-student highschool...a crush. I kind of had to let it out, and, like...somehow wanted to sneak this letter to her. The last thing I want is to be creepy, and no, I don't want a damn relationship, just for her to know what goes through my head and why.
Names have been altered.
Suzie Q—
It’s 11:21 PM as I type, and you may be a bit jostled at why I see fit to mess with my keyboard this late. Hey, whatever. I’m trying to pass time, maybe keep myself from snapping.
My dad said today that I should watch what I say to you; after all, you act alongside me in our school play as my character’s fiancée, and the whole thing, or at least those three or four scenes with both of us in them, would suffer a huge blow if you were, like, uncomfortable around me. I have a thing with making people uncomfortable anyway, probably from the lack of restraint I show in conversation (this isn’t to mention laughing way too hard at stupid things, but that’s another topic). He said this after I chatted with/to him about school…then the play…then, out of the topic of the play, I mentioned you.
I told him I couldn’t even look straight at you sometimes—that’s how pretty you are. I wouldn’t want this to turn into a sad attempt at courtship, so I’ll spare the details of why you’re so…beautiful, for absence of a better adjective. (“Beautiful” is pulcher/pulchra/pulchrum in Latin, by the way, in case you ever needed to know and didn’t already.) Then I told him I almost wanted to let you know how I saw you, just—because. I don’t know. It may be clearer to you now of why things have not always been so smooth between me and girls. I just can’t play the distant, unfazed, quiet person—I have to tell everyone everything or I just don’t feel right.
There it is, on paper. I’ve got a crush. Forgive me if it sounds like I’m blowing it out of proportion, though—it’s been a long time since I’ve felt genuine infatuation. Admittedly, I don’t really know you, and I don’t get you sometimes (looking at the caloric content of a box of Pop-Tarts was just too funny to me—sorry for the weird answer I gave when asked why you should gain weight, I was pretty much just teasing you) but you are, to me (and probably every other highschool student), a very interesting person, with your freaky sunglasses and…that odd dance you do sometimes. We’d be bored without you…I would.
Yes, I do think about you all the time. This I will freely admit. It’s mostly in the context of “What would Suzie Q think if she saw me doing this?” or “I hope I don’t go to school and she thinks I’m a pizzaface.” Sometimes, coincidentally just like the character I play, I do wonder what I’ll say to you the two days of the week we’re in the same zipcode. I mean, I get to talk to you exactly one-third less than I get to talk to Mac or Mrs. Potts, nice though they are. Your mom does have one long distance to drive in that monstrous van of hers, though, so it’s, like, good for the environment and stuff that you don’t come on Wednesday.
My guess is that, if you ever wanted some boy to write/type you a long-winded letter, you’d want it to be from one of the more suave-looking guys, like, the kind usually seen with his posse of equally cool people or something. I know a letter from the class dork is the last thing you’d want just after starting at this school, but I typed it anyway. Inconsiderate? I guess. If I were, like, asking anything from you I’d probably want to burn the letter afterward, and knowing that I’m just “letting it out”, hopefully without being a groveling doofus, makes it easier to know that you’re reading this, if you are.
If this is a waste of your free time, I apologize. You’re driving me up the wall without really having to do anything, and so I’m trying to make it easier for me to just fall asleep tonight, instead of fidgeting and thinking too hard. Don’t think of this letter as utterly destroying the relatively non-tense acquaintance we seem to have…I think of it as a classmate letting another classmate in on his mental state. I can’t help it, and you probably can’t help that I can’t help it. If you would, though, just understand that I still have no, should I say—“motives”, even though I did end up hugging you a bit tight during rehersal (what can I say—I draw from my own possible emotions while onstage, plus, I usually hug people that way). I still know that, in the end, you’re just another person, and nothing’s drastically changed in the world if you file a restraining order against me.
This is all just a rant, know that. I hope it doesn’t mess your day up too much.
-Brillemeister
P.S.: Fine, Berkeley probably isn’t so bad. But Atlanta isn’t either. :D And I sure as hell don’t mean Cobb County when I say that.
Names have been altered.
Suzie Q—
It’s 11:21 PM as I type, and you may be a bit jostled at why I see fit to mess with my keyboard this late. Hey, whatever. I’m trying to pass time, maybe keep myself from snapping.
My dad said today that I should watch what I say to you; after all, you act alongside me in our school play as my character’s fiancée, and the whole thing, or at least those three or four scenes with both of us in them, would suffer a huge blow if you were, like, uncomfortable around me. I have a thing with making people uncomfortable anyway, probably from the lack of restraint I show in conversation (this isn’t to mention laughing way too hard at stupid things, but that’s another topic). He said this after I chatted with/to him about school…then the play…then, out of the topic of the play, I mentioned you.
I told him I couldn’t even look straight at you sometimes—that’s how pretty you are. I wouldn’t want this to turn into a sad attempt at courtship, so I’ll spare the details of why you’re so…beautiful, for absence of a better adjective. (“Beautiful” is pulcher/pulchra/pulchrum in Latin, by the way, in case you ever needed to know and didn’t already.) Then I told him I almost wanted to let you know how I saw you, just—because. I don’t know. It may be clearer to you now of why things have not always been so smooth between me and girls. I just can’t play the distant, unfazed, quiet person—I have to tell everyone everything or I just don’t feel right.
There it is, on paper. I’ve got a crush. Forgive me if it sounds like I’m blowing it out of proportion, though—it’s been a long time since I’ve felt genuine infatuation. Admittedly, I don’t really know you, and I don’t get you sometimes (looking at the caloric content of a box of Pop-Tarts was just too funny to me—sorry for the weird answer I gave when asked why you should gain weight, I was pretty much just teasing you) but you are, to me (and probably every other highschool student), a very interesting person, with your freaky sunglasses and…that odd dance you do sometimes. We’d be bored without you…I would.
Yes, I do think about you all the time. This I will freely admit. It’s mostly in the context of “What would Suzie Q think if she saw me doing this?” or “I hope I don’t go to school and she thinks I’m a pizzaface.” Sometimes, coincidentally just like the character I play, I do wonder what I’ll say to you the two days of the week we’re in the same zipcode. I mean, I get to talk to you exactly one-third less than I get to talk to Mac or Mrs. Potts, nice though they are. Your mom does have one long distance to drive in that monstrous van of hers, though, so it’s, like, good for the environment and stuff that you don’t come on Wednesday.
My guess is that, if you ever wanted some boy to write/type you a long-winded letter, you’d want it to be from one of the more suave-looking guys, like, the kind usually seen with his posse of equally cool people or something. I know a letter from the class dork is the last thing you’d want just after starting at this school, but I typed it anyway. Inconsiderate? I guess. If I were, like, asking anything from you I’d probably want to burn the letter afterward, and knowing that I’m just “letting it out”, hopefully without being a groveling doofus, makes it easier to know that you’re reading this, if you are.
If this is a waste of your free time, I apologize. You’re driving me up the wall without really having to do anything, and so I’m trying to make it easier for me to just fall asleep tonight, instead of fidgeting and thinking too hard. Don’t think of this letter as utterly destroying the relatively non-tense acquaintance we seem to have…I think of it as a classmate letting another classmate in on his mental state. I can’t help it, and you probably can’t help that I can’t help it. If you would, though, just understand that I still have no, should I say—“motives”, even though I did end up hugging you a bit tight during rehersal (what can I say—I draw from my own possible emotions while onstage, plus, I usually hug people that way). I still know that, in the end, you’re just another person, and nothing’s drastically changed in the world if you file a restraining order against me.
This is all just a rant, know that. I hope it doesn’t mess your day up too much.
-Brillemeister
P.S.: Fine, Berkeley probably isn’t so bad. But Atlanta isn’t either. :D And I sure as hell don’t mean Cobb County when I say that.