Posts Tagged ‘breakups

03
Jun
11

GUEST LETTER

6/3/11 – Im putting this on the home page b/c it’s too long for the Guest Page. And because I can. Because it’s my blog.

our 5th guest letter is a bit different. it’s 100% serious. and 100% awesome. this girl had me pretty close to tears. ill say no more. she wanted to remain anonymous so without further ado (ps its long. like, really long. but worth it).

T.
I find it a bit ironic that I’m writing you of all people a letter of gratitude after, you know, everything.
I still have so much negative energy toward you that it startles me to find myself thinking of you at random and I can feel my body tensing up palpably, a defense mechanism against even simple thoughts of you.
It wasn’t all bad, was it though? I could write at you for hours if I fixated on all the yuck, but I don’t let myself do that these days. Today I’m here to thank you. That’s all.
Yes, surprise should be your natural reaction.
Remember that night we walked around, side by side, next to the water? It was three am when we began, that second weekend up at the lake, before anyone had really made friends or moved in that summer. I had just gotten off a shift working the door at the bar. My head was swimming with love for this strange new place, my own daring to go through with it, and this life and the summer and all the people and their energy.
I was buzzed, my shift ended in a couple of Starry Nights and a Red Headed Slut. I hurried home under the stars to a promising group of new characters on the front porch. The kind you laugh with and look around at with glee before you realize they’re barely disguising how much they’ll ultimately want to crush you to feel bigger, brighter, more. But not then, then it was just so. A perfect storm to start the greatest summer. It was the greatest summer, wasn’t it?
Finally, everyone retired to their own rooms and new beds, so many still- unfamiliar names and faces swirling around in their heads. But we weren’t done, then. Just us. We walked for hours that night, literally. You had to work at eight that morning and we were just approaching the restaurant as it opened at seven. We strolled in and ate breakfast together like it was the most natural thing in the world. I had to work at 10:30 am, but by then I didn’t need sleep. I was electric. Completely lit with energy, my veins felt too full to hold my body. We dined, we laughed, across from each other, hours into a conversation that flowed so beautifully that I feel physically ill even now just thinking about the ease. Still strangers, but losing mystery by the minute.  We finished eating and you went to work and I half-skipped back to my room in the dorm building, already smitten.
We never touched that night or morning, except when our arms collided briefly as we swatted our way through a cloud of gnats, somewhere amid hour three. Or maybe I shook your hand in introduction. I can’t remember if I was still in that phase.
There aren’t many nights or moments in my life that I would honestly label as perfection. They’re all scattered and rare and mostly fragments of bigger, bitter disappointments. But this night, this one was perfect.
We were perfect.
I wish we could have, would have, just stopped there, hanging frozen in time. I wish we’d never have met again. I don’t need the years of everything that went deeper and stole pieces of me and destroyed others, but I’d keep that night. Hell, I’ll keep it anyway.  I’ll hold it deep in the depths, no matter the way things turned out.
Remember that night when you told me you loved me more than you could ever love yourself? That’s the fucking saddest thing anyone has ever said to me. It was all falling apart by then, anyway. But even more than starting to hate you for saying it, I hated and still hate myself for feeling the need for you to mean it as it started to seep in. Through all my cracks and little broken parts, eventually invading the whole and knocking me off course.
You may not love yourself, but you certainly never loved me either.
That’s not what this is about. I’m writing to thank you. There’s not really much I can honestly say I’m grateful for when it comes to you, but I do treasure the way we met, that perfect night.
Thank you, for being handsome and charming and for just talking to me. Thanks for not trying to get in my pants or making me feel awkward or embarrassed so you could take advantage. I’ve seen you do that so many times to so many people, preying on insecurity. But not that night. For whatever reason, you let me feel like I was the right girl with the right mind at the right time.
You’re just so goddamn handsome, it’s disarming. It was disarming.
I hope you’ve got everything you need. I hope someday you turn your head up to the sun and realize it’s always been there, just waiting for you to realize it. I hope you’re warm at night and that some girl finds a way to disarm you, but doesn’t abuse it like you do. I hope you wrap your giant, graceful fingers around her fingers and catch them in her hair. I hope you drown in her eyes the way I felt I couldn’t catch my breath looking into yours.
I hope you stop making promises, because you’ll never understand how a broken promise from your direction can cause the edges to crumble off an entire world.
I hope you never contact me again; because you know I’ll always tell you everything is going to be all right. It’s cruel. Remember those months of page upon page we typed to each other? I waited each time for yours with baited breath, devouring every punctuation mark and pronoun with my heart. I knew you didn’t love me then, but that didn’t stop me from loving you anyway. Us, playing at friends. We were never fucking friends. Thanks for helping me realize the difference between hiding behind words for comfort and actually wanting to build a genuine friendship with someone. It was the closest you ever came to needing me though, wasn’t it? A steady fix of reassurance in your darkest moments. I hope I never need anyone like that.
More than anything though, the stupid, silly, selfish, girl in me hopes you remember that one perfect night as vividly and as reverently as I do. I hope you keep it suspended over you like a mobile, or an umbrella. A reminder of how living cosily inside the exact right place at the exact right time feels. Those moments before we learned how to hurt each other and who could make it the deepest.
You always won.
By the way, thanks also for the wreck plate that last morning. Remember? You dumped me for the last time fifteen hours later.  I thought you loved me then, that hurried-with-oversleep morning as you grabbed your phone and called in the order, just in the nick of time. You, always keeping me on my toes, in the dark, knocked on my ass.
Thanks to you I’m on a new path. A better one. Thank you.
Sara
28
Feb
11

dear anne hathway,

And I guess to a certain extent, James Franco, because I think after the debacle that was Oscar night, there are many women & men – not that there is anything wrong with that…no of course not  (c’mon people it’s a Seinfeld reference, calm down) – who soured on you after your performance. But since this letter is going to focus on my relationship with Anne, I’ll leave you out of it from now on James, mainly because if I mailed you this letter you’d probably just roll it up and smoke it.

But Anne, my beautiful Anne, what the hell were you doing up there? You came off sometimes as a giddy school girl, and sometimes as a ‘too cool for school’ biatch. Yes, stop, I know the opening bit was hilarious, but that really had nothing to do with you. You didn’t write it, it wasn’t live so you had a chance to actually act (which I think you do quite well quite often), as opposed to freelance during the actual awards. But now that I think of it, you didn’t even have to freelance…you were reading from a teleprompter and still managed to make it seem as awkward  as someone trying to argue that “Bride Wars” was a good movie.

Speaking of your movies, it’s going to be tougher and tougher to defend your abilities when you continue to churn out crap like that, not to mention “Get Smart.” I first fell in love you in “The Devil Wears Prada,” which I was forced to watch on a plane, because it was either that or reading a book. And since reading is for losers (just kidding, if it wasn’t for reading I wouldn’t be able to write this well or have the 17 people/day visit my blog), I watched you outshine everyone in that overall brutal movie. And that includes Emily Blunt & Meryl Streep. Then I saw your boobs in “Brokeback Mountain” and “Havoc,” and even though the latter was a garbage movie, boobs are my downfall so I was ready to propose.

Then, just a couple of years ago, the pinnacle of our relationship came during “Rachel Getting Married,” because now not only did you have a smoking body, but you also proved you could act. Now maybe when I rent “Love & Other Drugs” (speaking of which, I get to see you naked again, right?) you’ll reignite the passion in our one-way relationship. Because after last night babe, I think I’m done. I mean, this is just brutal…

Stop waving your effing arms everywhere.

Your Ex-Lover,

Oscar

26
Jan
11

dear ione skye & john cusack,

Thanks for making it nearly impossible for men all over the world to let go of a girlfriend. I guess in all fairness I should include Cameron Crowe & Peter Gabriel in this letter also. Let me tell you the lesson that I, and millions of other males, learned the first time we saw this movie: “Gentleman, if a woman breaks up with you and you want her back, it’s simple, stand outside her window playing some romantic love song in the wee hours of the morning and I promise, you will win her back!” Well, though I am sure I am not the first to come to this conclusion – this strategy doesn’t work in real life.

To be honest, I don’t have any empirical proof to back it up, since I’ve never been so desperate to get back together with someone (though, there are MANY girls I’ve been desperate to get together with in the first place, but that’s a different situation). The only reason I know it doesn’t work is because I’m not an idiot. While in many ways I’m an idealist, and would love to believe I could win a woman’s heart over by standing outside her door holding my iphone above my head with it blaring “fill in cheesy love song from this decade,” I know it just doesn’t happen that way. Or maybe, it does. I’m going to cut myself off from blabbing on and on and open this up to the general public…Ladies & Gents, please comment with quick story if something similar to the following scene has happened in your life, and not only that, if it actually did the trick.

05
Jan
11

dear matt damon & minnie driver,

I should probably let you know the following: I am not an orphan, no one stabbed me, no one put cigarettes out on me (though I do have a hole in an old fleece from a lighter, but I think that was a drunken mishap), and I’ve never dated a medical student.  This last part really pisses me off, since 94% of the reason I went to grad school was to meet a future neurosurgeon that would allow me to reach my full potential of becoming ‘Mr. Mom.’ Yet I digress.

So while I have never been any of the above things, I have been in both of your shoes in the past.  I’ve been ‘Skylar-ed,’ where someone I’ve dated put some intense pressure on me; and I’ve been ‘Will Hunting-ed,’ where someone refused to confront how they really felt (I owe you more of an explanation on this link…bottom line is she claims to have lead me on, I think she just couldn’t deal with her emotions for numerous reasons.  Whether my theory is true or not, it’s waaay easier for me to accept, so we’ll go with that).  I think that is what made you so effective in this scene, Matt, you clearly love Skylar but you refused to admit it.  I might also add that in my Basics of Acting class in college, I nailed this scene as well…to the point where the professor told me after he thought I was actually going to hit my co-actor.  My acting career ended there, I’ve always been told I have a face for radio…there I go digressing again.

Both situations kind of suck, let’s face it, who likes someone applying pressure to a situation…no matter how you feel about someone, that person asking you to give up your life and move to California isn’t that sweet.  But being Skylar is quite a bit more painful, in my book anyway.  It’s one thing to feel strongly about a person, and not have that person feel the same way; but it’s a whole different ballgame when you know that person feels the same, but for one reason or another (you know, like fear of abandonment issues b/c your foster-father used to beat you with a wrench before shipping you off to the next foster home), can’t acknowledge it.

Alright before I write myself into a deep depression, I’ll just let you enjoy the scene you both so wonderfully crafted.

Sincerely,

GVS

ps – Minnie where the hell have you been the last 13 years?




Letters sent…

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