Hey you.

Don’t you worry, angel.  I’m not going to use your name.  I’m not going to reveal a thing about you.  I’m not even going to let you know that I wrote this.  I am going to fantasize about you accidentally coming across this on the web.  Maybe you’re doing google searches on my name.  You’ll read this and you’ll miss me.  I don’t know if I ever truly wanted to be with you but I definitely wanted to be missed.

Does that make me a bitch?  That’s the question that I’m forced to grapple with.  You know as well as any of us that society is all about labels.  If I’m too honest, I’m a bitch.  If I’m not honest enough, I’m a phony.  If I admit to enjoying sex, I’m a whore.  If I pretend not to enjoy sex, I’m a prude.  If I cry, I’m emo.  If I don’t cry, I’m an ice queen.  Perhaps it’s best that things ended the way they did because you know what society would have labeled us.  Then again, I always thought we wouldn’t care.

Sometimes, it’s just easier for me to write you a letter that I know you’ll probably never bother to read.  Of course, you could read this.  For all I knew, maybe you actually read my blogs on occasion.  Maybe you sometimes check out my twitter account. 

I say that maybe you do because I know you probably don’t.  But I say maybe as my way of saying, “I wish you did.”

My memory is my curse. Sometimes I wish I could just forget every happy memory I’ve ever had because the happier they are, the more depressed they make me.  Whenever I remember being happy, all I can think about is how fleeting that moment was.  It’s like I used to tell you.  I don’t trust happiness.  Happiness is just an interval between sadness.  Happiness is life’s joke on me.

You made me very happy.

Was that your joke on me?

I keep thinking about the first time you said that you loved me.  At the time, I was far too happy for my own good.  Now, I just wonder how many other girls heard those same words on that same day?

Or did you actually love me?

Well, it doesn’t really matter, does it?  What matters is that everyone leaves in the end and you’re no different.  You did just what I thought you would do and for that, I should be thankful.  You’ve justified my cynicism.  You’ve justified my refusal to trust.  You’ve justified my dedication to never love.

Because you know what?  We talk about love and we talk about soul mates and we talk about destiny and we talk about friendship and we talk about how much we mean to each other and in the end, that’s just what we say to try to keep everything acceptable.  You didn’t give me love and you didn’t give me happiness.  All you gave me were a few brilliant orgasms.

And, considering that I’m an atheist when it comes to love and an agnostic when it comes to friendship, what more can a girl ask for?  At the very least, it was something I could believe in without any doubt or fear.

Why am I writing this?  I’m writing it because I had to say it in some way or else I would just spend the rest of my life obsessing over it.  And then you would win, wouldn’t you?

I still love you, have no doubt about it.

Je me rappelle le goût de votre sexe, mon amour.
 
Love,
 
Votre ange
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