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"FUCK her.
I tried to kiss her and she looked at me like I wanted to pull her wisdom teeth out. For months, we're friends and now she won't kiss me. Won't touch me. She doesn't even have the guts to admit to not being attracted to me. I should've punched the window in, grabbed her and threw her through her doorway. They use me for friendship, to tide them over until a bigger, better built asshole-in-shining-leather comes along and they let him stick it in them on the first night. I'm a second choice. For everyone. Or at best, a lousy fuck until they can get back to their first choice. Screw them all. Why am I only good for a friend? Is my belly too soft? My features too girlish? My ass too big?
It's always been a battle. But then some people who have a smoother entry in the gene pool get someone their whole life. It's physical -- so much of it's physical. Don't tell me that's immature. Or wrong. Ask anyone who's average-looking or worse and he or she will tell you the same: only gorgeous people can afford to be deep.
I read your poems. I listened to your goddamn albums. I remembered your birthday. She lied to me. She led me on. She flirted with me, told me she wanted me to be her hero, called me every day -- but won't touch me. What a set-up, and I walked right into it. I even know better and I still walked right into it.
Who is there now? Just half-distracted friends who pay attention until they find fucking partners and then they're gone. I'm not looking for friends. I want what I've seen all around me since I was 14 but never had. One who likes me. One who is attracted me. I don't believe anyone has ever been. Where is the girl who thinks I'm more than harmless?
It's been years since I've thought anything intelligent. Just getting more obsessed.
I bet she fucks him. Hard. In his car. She'll come to me, and she won't spare the details. Don't TELL me it's my fault. I go to her. It won't be over. Again. Like always. Someday, they'll be someone. Until then, how else can I keep my mind occupied?
You sound like a girl, they'll say. You worry just like a little girl.
See if you miss me. Like all the others. You won't call. You won't change your mind. I've been led on by better. But I'm falling for it. I don't want writing. Not art. Screw art. I haven't thought in years.
Sandy, I'm leaving you. And we weren't even together. But I hope you miss me. And feel lonely and worthless. I got you out of your house and showed you how to move. Now find your leather jacket Romeo and fuck him until the Doors record ends."
12/16/97
Horatio Poundstone is young college student from the midwest. He is upset.
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