My letter to you.
Dear You,
Yes, you. Can you really believe that I have the sense enough to write a letter that will continue on to a reasonable point about nothing at all? Maybe I will cover everything that has ever happened to me. Maybe I won’t. We’ll see.
Honestly, I’m not quite sure why I am writing this. It seems a bit frugal at best, however I as myself am a bit frugal. At most. As I’m sitting here jotting down these meaningless words to me, myself, and I, there is an overwhelming smell of garlic mashed potatos that have been sitting out for days. This may show that I’m not a cleanest of people, but now at least you know I can go days standing the same smell. If that makes it better... Which I don’t believe it does.
Have you ever wondered why when the lights are off and my computer screen is lit up, the out side world is only a shadow on my destiny or the man at my funeral. It seems as if I was made to fly across oceans of insults only to reach for a shining star that will most likely be my downfall.
Okay. Done with the poetic stuff on to real hardcore stuff. Bunnies perhaps? Let us get to the meat of this. I like fat on my steak. I think it taste good. I should probably tell you the fat of this, it being the good part. Well, let’s see. Fat, Fat, Fat...... Hmmmm.... I just finished a really good anime... My favorite color is... I don’t have one, and somehow the only key on my keyboard that is faded is the R. Weird huh?
Sometimes I wish I could know the life of the people reading my writings. I want to know just what makes them tick, what makes them think. If only I could slip in their skin, and explore their life. I wonder if they think its even good enough to be explored. What makes them think writings are good or bad? Punctuation? Capitalization? The way words morph and bend under the writer’s finger tips? So will you let me ask you?
What makes you tick?
Sincerely with thoughts of dreadfulness,
Me.
Me.
