LETTER TO LYDIA: 2/14/2015

 

Dear Lydia,

(I've decided to write in barebone gmails so that I don't concern myself with over-formatting.)

Yesterday was a weird day.

I woke up at 3 am and showered. It reminded me of those weird teenage-ry movies in which the main protagonist's (the "loser-but-somehow-still-normal-and-stereotypically-attractive-in-every-way" girl archetype, of course) only problem is catching the bus on time. They always seem to sleep in and come to their local ideal high school in shambles (not real shambles, of course, like you and me; just "not-enough-makeup-and-too-much-casual-attire" shambles) and get made fun of by the most popular girls while the boy of their dreams happens to walk past and compliment them (or something coincidentally ridiculous).

That wasn't my 3:00 am. I just showered late.

I never seem to get those cutesy fairy tale endings (or beginnings); you know, with my boyfriend living 415.883 miles away and my own mind lost even farther.

Do you ever shower at 3 am and contemplate the meaning of female sexuality?

Why is it so easily taken? Whose really is it?

Why can't we keep it?

I wish my only problem was getting to school on time.

I've got 99 problems and all of them happen to involve men. Of course.

Manipulative, disgusting, abusive men. But #notallmen.

I just received your letter immediately after waking up this morning. I wrote some of it while I was half asleep around midnight and I'm now continuing it today.

I tend to do that. Leave messages to others broken and fragmented, unintelligible, nothing more than a scrambled mix of the English (and sometimes French) alphabet.

Which is why your poetry graveyard is so important to me. <3

I'm not very good with communication. It's why I write. And why I'm so honored to write with you.

We make an excellent team, you and I.

I want to grow up and be like Rachel and Fallon; I want to make something of the shit I spew from my fingertips and the grip of a messy pen.

I'm going to walk to the post office now and hope I can get enough money for a stamp outgoing to Canada. Why do we even need special stamps for Canadian packages? It's not like you're crossing an ocean or going on a plane or anything. Ontario is only six hours away, but the post office is making it seem farther.

I hope I make it there one day. He doesn't know I want to be an author yet.

He thinks I'm going to be a physicist, like everyone else. But I don't know.

He wants me to live with him and make lots of money, but I'm perfectly content with a small Pittsburgh apartment in which I write my novels and poems and short stories (okay, maybe I've never started one of those).

But I still love him. Which is why he bleeds into all of my work.

Wish me luck,

Madison

LETTER TO LYDIA: 2/15/2015

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NORMALCY

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