Toastie ‘97

This might be a long letter, but it should be calm and composed, because that’s what kind of mood I’m in right now. I didn’t wake up until 1:30. My first thought was how much I screwed up yet again last night. Everything had been fine. One small thing turned into a huge thing, though. It’s all my fault, again, of course. My next thought was that I had no keys. I had taken all of my anger towards myself out last night on my keychain, which I threw down the staircase. I wasn’t able to find the keys. My next thought was that my foot was killing me. I decided my foot could take some punishment, too, and I kicked the staircase pretty hard. It was after I released my violent tendencies that I called you, because I felt at the time like the fact that I had been so angry at myself was a sign that I was truly too messed up for you to have to deal with (again.)

Although the fact that I was eavesdropping on you last made me hate myself, the truth is that I only did it for about three minutes. I’m not sure if that matters at all, but I don’t know whether or not you think I heard your whole conversation. I heard very little of it, and I know that doesn’t matter, actually, but I just wanted to tell you that. Unfortunately, what I heard was that something had upset you, and for whatever reason that I cannot explain, I was probably a hundred times more upset than you were, and much more upset by what happened to you than any problem that would have affected me. I probably only heard one small piece of your story, and yet I felt as if I would have tried to kill whoever was responsible for making you feel uncomfortable had I been there. (Maybe you can understand this if you think about how much I hate myself for just thinking I’m making you uncomfortable.) I found out tonight who this person was, I did feel the urge to cause his breathing to cease. I imagine you don’t feel the same way, and I’m certainly not condoning my thoughts, for I know I’m overreacting.

I just care too much. And I can’t stop caring so much. I know I’ve warned you a few times that you wouldn’t want to keep talking to me. And I haven’t purposedly done anything just to prove that I was right. If you wonder why I’ve said on a couple of occasions that I was okay, it’s because I really wanted to believe that I was, and if I were to keep trying to convince you that I’d never really be okay, then you’d eventually decide that you weren’t going to talk to me anymore.

Anyway, I felt brain-dead all afternoon, not doing much more than trying to organize my things. I eventually decided I’d get dressed, even though I couldn’t imagine finding any plans for tonight. I called you on a whim, although I know it was a stupid whim. I wanted to go see the Die Hard movies on East, and I really don’t know people I could’ve called. So for one brief moment, I decided I’d take a huge chance and call you. Even if you had no plans, I couldn’t realistically imagine that you’d want to do anything with me. So it was basically a completely thoughtless action, calling you. I could tell that having to talk to me upset you quite a bit, and so I’m pretty sure I won’t be calling you much in the future.

I don’t know what chance I have of talking to you much at all in the future. I’m hoping that by giving you my clear, complete, honest thoughts, you’ll have a clear, complete, honest response. For what may be the first time you have to hear it, I don’t expect anything from you. I’m just hoping for a response. I’ve caused to much distress for you to have obligations towards me, so please don’t feel like you owe me any kind of reply.

In the second note I wrote last night, I was just hoping that reminding that I genuinely care about you would somehow matter. After everything else I’ve said and done, though, I suppose you take no comfort in knowing that, since everything else I’ve said and done may have convinced you that I’m dangerously obsessed with you. And I seem to be promoting that idea every chance I get. I swear that, in my heart, I truly do care about you.

I guess I’m conradicting myself a lot. I’m telling you on one hand that you should stay away from me because I’m dangerous, and then I’m telling you that I swear that I’m not. Obviously, I doubt myself. I’ve been telling you that for weeks now. I guess what’s imporant is whether or not you doubt me or not. Are you really scared of me? Do you have any faith or trust in me whatsoever? Or is there some prerequisite that I must believe in myself first? Because of that’s the case, I don’t know if I do, and I guess that’s it, then, because if you don’t trust me at all, then I will always be worried that I’m upsetting you. And you know that I hate anyone, espically if it’s myself, who makes you uncomfortable.

I’m sure you think I elevate you to some goddess level or something. Whether I do or not, I can’t really say. I know you’re not perfect. I wish you didn’t worry so much about your work. I wish you weren’t so compulsive about being neat. And I wish you didn’t worry about putting on make-up all the time. But those are the worst things I can say about you. And they don’t affect how I feel about you at all. To me, you are an extremely beautiful, talented, intelligent, caring, understanding person. If to think that I’ve never known anyone who exhibits all these traits so well is putting you on a pedestal, then I guess I’m doing that, and I’m sorry. I probably treat you in a way that your other friends don’t. That probably makes you uncomfortable, and I don’t know how else to treat you.

I’ll end this letter now, I think. I guess I’ve said just about everything I’d want you to know if I were never going to speak to you again. If you can respond to me, I just want you to be honest. If you have to get angry at me, say things you think will hurt me, do that please. For the last time, you don’t owe me anything. You’ve already given me so much. I’m so greatful that you’ve offered your friendship to me. And I’m so sorry I have failed you from my end.