Dead Letters*

*Not the 2003 album by Finnish pop-rock band The Rasmus. Although ‘In the Shadows’ will always be a classic and I always wanted to wear feathers in my hair like their lead singer did. I was such a cool kid. *puts on that song and sings along for old times’ sake*

Ok so I’m reducing, reusing and recycling, here. I wrote this a fair while ago and put it on DeviantArt, where pretty much nobody has, and nobody will, ever read it. I am seriously considering deleting my account – hence going through all my stuff on there. I have outgrown it. I made that page when I was 15(?) and following in the footsteps of a friend (or two). I’ve kept it this long because there are memories there, I guess… but now I’ve decided it’s going. I’ve also decided that I’m NOT giving you that link. Sorry.

Anyway, the point is that I’ve recently taken to passive-aggressively writing letters to people who have inspired strong feelings in me. Y’know, whenever I’ve been unable for whatever reason to say all the things I’d like to say to them. The following was the easiest, and the most therapeutic.

To Jungle Boy,

I would say something like, ‘Why Jungle Boy? You’re 25 years old…’
But you seem so very childish in your outlook, based on everything that you’ve shared so far, that it fits. You are just a boy.

You seem to think you know what you need, and don’t understand why it isn’t all just being dropped at your feet. I think if you could just grow the hell up, everything else might start to fall into place.
You go to great lengths to show how depressed you are. You make that crystal clear in every single word you write. You make it even clearer in the ones you don’t write. You write about how you bought a new jacket today, or went to a gig last night, but it’s always really about the way you say it. About how empty you feel, how little meaning anything that happens in your life holds for you, how nothing ever makes you feel good.

This is mainly because you went to university and are 25 years old and clearly carry with you the leftovers of a high opinion of yourself, yet you work in Morrisons and live with your parents.
I can see how that must grind, except you don’t seem to have tried all that hard to change anything. (Oui, J’accuse).
You’re far from alone in the situation you’re in, but not everyone who’s fallen in the same way refuses so stubbornly to pick themselves up. Most of them are at least prepared to look up. And smile, now and then.

You’re angry with your father for making you apply for, and not simply handing to you, a job at the office where he works. You accuse him of ‘leaving you to drown in a Nile of shit’. Is it his fault that that’s where you feel that you are right now? He probably earned his success. Worked for it, struggled for it, suffered for it. By himself. Just because he may be in a position to hand to you on a plate what he worked hard for, why should he? If you were as worthy as you seem to think you are, you’d get yourself there. Maybe you will, and Good Luck. Although your lack of attention to detail, which I’m inferring from the way that you don’t always spell everything right – in a blog, for god’s sake – leads me to think that you probably won’t try hard enough and all the luck in the world won’t help.
(By the way; Your = belonging to you. You’re = you are. DEFINITELY <– is spelt like that. De-finite-ly).

On a side note: If you stopped wallowing in whatever the snivelling, petulant child equivalent of self-pity is, just for a second, you’d realise that from some people’s point of view you’re fucking lucky.

I don’t know this for a fact, but I suspect that you’re an only child. I’m sure you are. You certainly talk, and seem to act, like the stereotypical spoilt brat. You’re the classic believer in ‘The World Owes Me A Living,’ throwing your toys out of the pram because they’re not the exact ones you wanted. While it’s not your fault that you never had a sibling to share with, I just can’t understand how you can be so utterly incapable of loving anyone, or even caring for anyone, except yourself. The way you talk it’s as though other people – even the ones you call friends – are to be derided, sneered at, used as examples of ‘worse than myself’.

You write without emotion, without feeling, without… anything. I haven’t actually met you so I can’t be sure, but if this is how you are with people in real life then there’s no wonder so few of them want to be around you. I was curious to see if there was a ‘real you’ beneath this incredibly hostile front. You were the same to me behind the scenes – me with my efforts to show an interest in your life, to be empathetic and yet optimistic in the face of your insufferable nihilism, to inspire some sort of reaction from you – as you are to the world at large. Cold, blank, unresponsive. Nothing to offer to anyone and nothing to gain from anyone. Just a guy who works, (and hates it) goes out and buys clothes, (and hates it) goes out and drinks and dances with friends, (and hates it) occasionally gets laid after one such night out (and hates it). A guy who finds a sickening amount of negative things to dwell on in absolutely everything that happens to him, even a holiday abroad with a best friend.
I mean, fair enough you answered my questions – but only barely. You were only being what you thought could be taken as polite. You asked me some questions in return, but it was clear that you didn’t care for the answers.

You objectify women – myself and ‘the Romanian girl’ being the only almost-exceptions. And only, I suspect, because you haven’t met either of us in real life. By the way, why doesn’t the Romanian girl deserve a name? Or if you’re protecting her privacy, at least a better moniker than the one you give her.
But then I suppose you do refer to your ex as ‘The C**t’ (see, I couldn’t even say it, and I’m not even saying anything out loud) and to one of your closer female friends as ‘The Moomin’; Romanian girl seems almost affectionate by comparison.
I’d say something about how broken this shows you up to be, but I think you’d revel in that. You want to be broken because you think it’s what you’re good at. You’re presumably convinced you could never be as good at anything else, so why try. Right?

Whether you need it or not, you don’t want help. If someone throws you a lifeline you either pretend not to see it and wait until it goes away, or you choke them with it. You like drowning in your Nile of shit.

You will probably never see this. I really wish I could say it all to your face, but that was never going to be an option. It would be an interesting conversation to have over unethical, unsatisfying coffee though. Branded non-coffee that I might end up just pouring over your head if you became too infuriating (being as I am one of those lower life forms who are capable of both fury and impulse).

If you really wanted to be saved, I think everything I just said would be good for you to hear. You think you’re better than everyone else because you can see through all the superficial crap that makes them happy. You’re missing the point. Which is that They’re Happy.
What the Hell are you?

And if by some bizarre twist of reality you actually just read all of this, feel free to prove me wrong and respond. I’ll be very surprised to find that you’ve been keeping an eye on me here, though. I read your blog and you know I do, but why on earth would you want to read things that I write?

So there you go, folks. Don’t ever get to me; I might just write a nasty letter for you not to read once you’re gone.


Eh, that was all a little bit emo. Smiles, smiles…

Hmm. I was at work this morning (the deli counter, with two women my mum’s age…) and for some reason this came into my head:

Let’s just say that when this happened I didn’t exactly *not* sing it out loud.




About Stephy

50% happy, 50% wildly uncertain. 94.7% bewildered, 78% raving mad, 4.5% awesome, 63% tea/coffee and cake. Wearing odd clothes, favouring odd points of view and Drifting Aimlessly since 1991. View all posts by Stephy

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