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As these things do it all started out innocently enough – you were literally the boy next door. You moved in with your mom and sisters one day in junior high. I was riding my bike and I met you. You were cute and polite…you know, just like a boy next door. You were younger than me, by just enough.

Soon we rode bikes together and listened to music. You befriended my brother so it was always the three of us. You liked me and I knew it. I liked you too. My brother knew it and ignored it. My friends thought you were cute but we all agreed you were a baby, too young for us. I was coming out of this unfortunate ugly duckling phase and other boys were starting to get it. I liked that too – I’ve always liked attention. You didn’t like it. You started talking about how you loved me, to everyone but me. My brother told you to cut the shit. But you didn’t, because you’ve always liked attention too.

I started dating other boys – one boy in particular that put a bee in your bonnet. Your family kind of sucked so you were always around my house, sleeping over, hanging with my brother, making sandwiches, borrowing my CDs, joking with my mom. You were kind of like Eli Cash in The Royal Tenenbaums. You always asked me to be your girlfriend but I just laughed and said you were too young. But everyone knew I loved you too. Despite these other age-appropriate boys. Despite everything. We would lie around and listen to new bands, and sometimes kind of brush hands and arms and look at each other and everyone knew. We would fake fight and hug and kiss and make a ruckus. My brother wanted to murder us both sometimes.

I ended up dating this boy your age senior year. That added significantly to the bees in your bonnet. You confronted me with lots of ‘what the fucks?’ and ‘how could yous?’. You hated me. We danced at the prom because you came with some other girl. You still hated me. I graduated. Went to college. Broke up with that boy because he was expendable, a summer fling, nothing like you. You still hated me. But it wasn’t about anyone’s age. It was about me loving you and being too scared to fuck it up and make you go away for good. You still hated me. Probably because I never told you any of that.

We ended up working together those first few summers during college. We hated each other (surprise!). One close friend we shared was our messenger of harsh sentiments. But things changed during the second summer. I had a bad break up before coming home. I cut off my hair and smoked and drank a lot. You were at your angriest towards me for a million reasons. I dated a boy we worked with just to make you jealous. It fucking worked. We were both in a tizzy. My parents went away and I had a party. We drank too much and made out in your car. I was numb that night but the next morning when we were making out in my bed numbness warmed up into love. It was too perfect. Something mutual had jangled loose in both our brains. That was the last good day for a while.

Once you had my heart for real you proceeded to try and make me jealous. So I did the same. It got toxic. I thought about the past too much, hated our progression. I was sad – the whole thing was a dirty trick. We were both so broken. On our last date to a rock show I gave my number to a boy to make you mad and he’s my husband now. We didn’t talk forever. Later you popped in and out of my life to various damaging degrees. Tried to sleep with my roommate. Said you loved me one winter night when I drew a dinosaur on your windshield and we hadn’t talked in ages. Wrote mean songs about me and hid them at the end of a mix tape you sent me. Passed out in the bushes on my wedding night after my family made me invite you.

You have gone through a lot of shit that has nothing to do with me, but are happy now making music and you have an awesome lady. I’m happy too. We’ve finally come around to each other again. We’re friends. Just like we somehow always were, somewhere in all the mess. Every time I tell anyone how I met my husband, I silently apologize to you. Not because I wish I was with you now, but because I willfully hurt you more than anyone ever. And guess what I still love you. But for a change I don’t hate you.

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You and your rich business school fratboy friends are obnoxious and confident as only rich boys can be. You all rented out a freaking mansion on the top of a hill above San Francisco. Two kitchens. Four different decks each one with a stunning view of this beautiful city and its bridges and bodies of water. A heated pool. Dark wood floors. Mirrors. Fireplaces. A heated pool out back to lure silly women and get them in their bikinis. Winding staircases.

You took me to a corner of the back staircase to push me against the wall, stick your hands up my skirt, and tongue me. It was so hot I’m wet just writing about it. One room made me really excited. Big with huge windows overlooking the city and a huge bathroom and bathtub. I asked if we could do it there and you said definitely. I really want to do it in the pool with you but I’m afraid your dumb-ass friends would watch. They are gross. You are kind of gross too but you kiss awesome, have a killer body, and make me wet.

You are crude and so are your friends, especially that one asshole friend of yours that slapped my ass and made fun of me for having pale white legs and no spray tan like the perfect boring rich white girls you usually hang out with. They have white-girl hair extensions, fake boobs, and spray tans. Brag about their Jimmy Choo shoes. Really? Like a cartoon stereotype of a dumb rich girl! I thought that short fat one was really obnoxious the way she talked about “ghetto people” dancing in the club where she was that night. She would think 75% of my friends were ghetto. They come from everywhere and everything: Cuba, Senegal, Bronx slums, Brazilian favelas, Mexico City street theater groups. They are more fun in five minutes than that silly rich bitch is in five days.

I am blunt back at you. Told you I didn’t want to fuck you yet. Told you I don’t always groom my pussy hair and that it was a wild jungle you probably wouldn’t like. Told you you better not just jack-hammer me with your dick when we do fuck because that wouldn’t work for me. Said I need it slow. You said you knew that already obviously and you would “make every stroke count.” We’ll see pool boy.

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I was so psyched when you texted me until I looked at my phone and the message read, “Low Battery. 20% of battery remaining”. Fuck you phone.

I was thrilled when you pinged my inbox until I opened up Mail and the message read, “50% Off Summer Shirts” from the Men’s Wearhouse. Fuck you Men’s Wearhouse.

I get the message. Fuck you too.

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I loved you more than
I had loved any other
I doubt you did, me

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classic typewriter for zine making.

Dear Readers!
That’s you. This is not a letter to someone I once was in love with. Okay, maybe I was once in love with some of you. And probably still am in love with some of you. But this letter isn’t a letter to an ex. This is a letter asking for your feedback.

If you are a fan on facebook, you know that I’m seriously contemplating a zine of my favorite letters thusfar. But I would love your feedback on your favorites, so send me an email at lettersforloves@gmail.com, or simply comment on this post to let me know which letters you think I should include.

Diehard fans who give me feedback will get a copy in the mail, so act now! (You are counting on my follow through, and I’m counting on yours.)

With love and happy reading and writing!
xoxo
Love Letters

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I met you at a party. Maybe at the only party I went to in college. You made it worth my while and I had a crush on you right away. We danced and it was kind of awkward, because we are both awkward. You never cease to make me giddy, and I think you feel the same way, because you’ve told other people this. I think we are too shy and have had the worst timing though, and now we don’t even live anywhere near each other. I secretly want you to write a love letter to me and post it on this blog. I think that would be very romantic of you. You know who you are…just fucking do it.

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#19

you broke it off last night because i don’t want you to tie me up. it was bound to happen.

but i thought you might just hold off since i’m moving in a month anyway.

i hope it’s really because of that, and not that i accidentally babbled too much about a fucked up situation with an ex. you were just the first loving person who asked me how it went after getting off the plane from seeing him.

7 hours after i met you, i fucked you. how could i not? it was so hot how you pushed me up against the street sign and kissed me. you said we had to leave that coffee shop because you just wanted to touch me. it started raining so you put my bike on the back of your car and drove me to the grocery store. i sort of fell in love with you instantly- but never in a clingy way. you just felt comfortable- like you were already in the family.

i will miss the disgusting combination of chai spice and cigarettes in your mouth. i will miss the way you look me in the eye and tell me loving things, even though we barely know each other.

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