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Typed on Looseleaf Paper

Dear darling (or to whom it may concern):


First, please allow me to apologize for this most unusual format. Letters. Structure. Steps and stages, all of it's so old-fashioned. But so is undying love. Uncompromising good. So is easy joy.

So call me old-fashioned.

I would like to request a refund on the software that I've so recently purchased. All of the stories I can access on your system display in gray tones. I can't feel context on my fingertips. The only scent I breathe in is so much burning ozone. There's sound, sure enough, but there's no music.

I can make my own music. Please, be quiet. Just let me listen.

I would like to file a complaint regarding your customer service. I am not a customer. I do not want to be serviced. I want an old friends at the coffee shop. I want to be the new girl at the bookstore. Your online chat was helpful, though, after I ran them out of scripts.

Please stop coaching them. People can be lovely or hideous. They don't need to suppress that.

I would like to speak to your CEO. Your president. Your board of directions. Their administrative assistants and the fitness instructors that come by every Tuesday and/or Thursday. (Sandwiches are Wednesdays - too much mayo. Counter-productive.) Not to yell; I just want to meet them.

I want to know they're really there. Are you sure? When was the last time you checked?

So, in conclusion, I would like to thank you for your software. For your hardware. For your gray stories and your popular personalities. I think that what you've made is lovely,  in its way. Clearly, a lot of work went into it. Someone loves it. I've tried. But thank you, anyway. I honor the effort.

Even so, I just want my simple stories back. My human beings. My old-fashioned "feels".

So, with all my love,

To all of you,

From all of me,

 

A Person, Unimpersonal

P.S.: Bring back Firefly. That was the shit. Please?

Prompt: An expressive Anonymous asked me:

"Dear darling:"

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, feedback, reblogs, follows, and more!

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A Letter to My Face

Scars have never meant that you can’t smile. Ignore the commercials advertising another cream, another pill, another way to hide the leopard spots of your teenage years. You were human before and after, and when they tell you that clear skin is next to godliness remind yourself that no God could ever be so cruel, even with skin so pure. When a boy tells you that you have beautiful eyes, but the rest needs improvement, spit in his face, like the animal he thinks you are. Scars do not make you a leper, and nobody but you has the power to exile your own flesh. A girl will tell you that your face isn’t symmetrical, do not let this haunt you to the point of feeling like a distorted fun-house mirror. The best pictures will be the ones where you are happy.

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Dear Mr

Hello, I hope you are well wherever you are. It is 7:16pm as I write this. I have had the longest day. I woke up at 6:00am, had breakfast at 11:30am and lunch at 3:00pm. I read "Post-Mortem" by Patricia Cornwell. I had spaghetti and eggs for lunch. I know the sight of those two on a plate is like a brother and sister trying to make out- it's just not possible, but I had it anyway.

Do you want to know why?

I will tell you why. It is because I could not write!

Yes, I was to sit down and write something sweet. It was to be some sort of sensible attempt, something better than the last one, but all I could think of was you.

Yes, you sent me a text yesterday at 8:43pm. You said you like me a lot and find me interesting and could not fathom why a beautiful and intelligent lady like me is single.

You know something Mr...words are like stones!

You can throw them at someone and they'll hit them right in the face. Once a stone is thrown you can never take it back- that's what words are.

You can also use them to build- to make the strongest foundation ever!

Imagine all those beautiful stones that still stand today.

But you said somethings and left them to me. You said them like some Scientist in a laboratory mixing chemicals and waiting for the mixture to either foam or turn pink.

I can foam but not turn pink- thank Heavens for that! But, listen here Mr, I did not write because all I could think of was this letter. I want you to call me this time.

I want you to meet me and look me in the eyes and tell me all those things you said. You know it is easy to text and type, but not to express our feelings with our voice. I want to hear you say those things because frankly speaking I would believe you if I heard you say them.

Until then,

Do not ever, ever have spaghetti and eggs without me! I have never enjoyed a dish as that!

Take care,

Me.

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Robocop: My one true weakness

Dear Paul Verhoeven:


My name is Sebastian Major-Lazer and I turn twenty three in September. Recently, I was diagnosed with a totally real, totally plausible, terminal illness. I'll spare you the details on how long I have left to live, and the way in which my fragile little body will be torn asunder by the flesh-eating virus that lives inside me, but suffice to say, it's going to totally suck and be really super hella painful. The make a wish foundation got in touch and suggested that I write to famous people, and explain my condition to them in the hopes that they grant a very special wish just for me, to make my dreams come true before my brain effectively turns into an insect hostel. (although, from what the doctors told me, most of the grey matter will have disintegrated by that point, leaving very little for insect lave to feast upon.) Now, I've written to other "celebrities" to see if they can make my wishes come true before I turn into a miscellaneous pink goo like something you'd find at the bottom of an old fridge that the police found a corpse in, but you: You are a special, special case. To be honest, I don't really care if Nicolas Cage gets his shit together and makes a Face/off 2 (although that would be ballin', do not get me wrong,) and i'm not even that fussed about Versus 2, even though I mean, come on, it's been 10 years and we'd all like to see that, but no; you, Paul Verhoven, you hold the key to my most important wish. Please, I beg of you:

 

Please don't let them make Robocop 4.

 

Okay? Because I'm not sure my illness ravaged body could take it. I'm a big fan of the whole Robocop series. From Robocop 1, right the way through to Robocop 3, i'm a fan. I'm even a fan of the super weird cartoon from the 80's where Robocop helps old ladies cross the street and explains about traffic safety. Now I accept, the whole series isn't perfect and like any great canon of work, it has it's flaws. For instance I'm not sure you can really artistically justify the scene in Robocop 3 in which that kid reprograms a killbot with a child's computer and makes it behave like a cat. And also, FYI that movie, I'm not sure that having a 500lbs dead guy in steel armour being chased by ninjas on roller-skates is really the most realistic face-off you could come up with  Regardless of all these super weird flaws that I just found, these are all cool things that I like, and this is why it pains me to hear about the latest Robocop, Robocop 4,which is currently in development. 

 

When they built Rome, the perfect city, Romulus and Remus didn't kick back by the river, break out a cooler of Coors light and say "You know what, Rommers, what we need to do is take what's great about this city and take it apart brick by hallowed brick, until we're left with a mere shell of what was great, and all now is just ninjas on rollarskates and jetpack boots." I'm no fancy-pants historian, but i'm fairly certain they didn't say that, not least because they spoke Latin and I don't know the Latin for "you have 40 seconds to comply." Instead they let the great city grow old with dignity, a trait which they probably learnt whilst suckling, naked, from the tit of a wolf.

 

So you see, you, Paul, padre, brother; you should learn from the babes of Rome, see how they protected their art with a fierce and burning vengeance, without even resorting to a scene where Robocop has to defuse a bomb with his teeth. 

 

So instead of making us sit through Robocop finding love, Robocop marrying a princes daughter  Robocop finding a magic robot lamp with a robot genie inside that grants him but three digital wishes, Robocop dressing up in a black fat suit to infiltrate the head of an all black, all fat crime gang, instead of that; just let us live out our years in piece with the memories. We don't need a new Robocop for the now generation: let it sit inside the mind and every once in a while, i'll get really high, like some Lemon haze shit, and watch Robocop. And that'll be enough.

 

So please Paul, for me, make the dying wish of a young boy come true. 

 

Please don't let them make Robocop 4


Yours, Amore Sempre


Sebastian Major Lazer

 

 

 

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Letter No. 3

I’m not a very religious person. I’m certainly not a Christian person. However, there is in the autobiography of Koheleth, the teacher, a philosophy which I think fitting. If you haven’t read it, I suggest you do. A farewell is not something lightly given, and even less so is that given to a friend. However, I hardly hope this to be a farewell. In a year, much can change, much can be learned and be taught, many can meet and part ways. We’ve had both an hour of play and a year of conversation, and I believe, probably falsely, that I know you. I realize this in itself seems incredibly strange, however, that which is felt is not that which may be known in truth. Truth is not that which is sought, not that which is found, for truth is only known in one’s heart. To know truth, to find in your heart what is or isn’t true, I have found that you must open yourself to true friends and, in your weakest moments, find people who make you laugh and make you happy. In the darkest hours of your life you require nothing but friendship and faith. This year has been one of the hardest years for me, in terms of academics and in terms of emotion. I couldn’t really have done what I’ve done if you hadn’t been there, not really as a force pushing me towards a goal, but as an immovable object, an object that I call friend. I guess, at its essence, this is a thank you, a gratitude that I’m extending to you because, know it or not, you’ve changed me this year. I never would’ve expected myself to, as I did once before, believe in the innate goodness of humanity. Truly, and with all my heart, thank you. For caring enough to be my friend, a commodity which you may consider trivial, but for me is a rarity, a treasure to be appreciated.  

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Letter No. 2

There are a number of things which, given time and patience, you could discover on your own. Things which my father taught me; things I know will benefit you. Truly the most important of these things is, to put it in Latin, tibi scienda essendaque. You must know, and be, yourself. I know this sounds clichéd, and it is, but I’ve seen too many people like you, that is, individuals, consumed by the oneness of this school. Yes, it’s self explanatory. Yes, you’ve heard it thousands of time, and will hear it a thousand more, but it’s not very often that you get a reason why.

Rarely do I meet a girl who goes hunting. Even rarer is a Stratford girl who’ll admit it. It’s one of the most admirable things about you, and one of those things I’m terrified of you losing. I don’t understand hunting and I’m not going to pretend to, but my family is a hunting family. I understand how much it can impact someone, positively or negatively. The point I’m trying to make is, good or bad, you need to let your hobbies and choices take their path. I’ve seen far too many hobbies and idiosyncrasies weeded out of girls and boys so they turn into ‘normal’ people. There’s no such thing as normal. Who do you think is normal? No one in Latin is normal. No one in your grade is normal. Normal isn’t rare, it’s extinct. But to hide what makes you you, to put on a face of normality, that is what everyone should fear.

Being good at something and making good grades aren’t the same thing. You know that, and if not you do now. There are a lot of people in your grade who make very good grades. And then there are smart people. Sometimes these groups overlap, in fact oftentimes they do. But there will always be that stupid honor graduate. There will always be the genius with the 2.5 GPA. I tell you this for a reason, a reason that is very important to me. I don’t really trust people. I feel that people will never understand what I do, and I will never understand them. For you, who I believe has one of the highest potentials in your grade (that wording is really awkward), I truly hope that you will keep your uniqueness, that which makes you you, so that the others, the more timid, more shy, see that to be different is not to be ousted. I trust you to show this school what acceptance is, even if it’s hard.

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time capsule - ii

listen, 

they’re going to tell you that you can’t do it, you won’t survive in the real world, you need to mature and think about a proper career, a way to make your spouse happy. sometimes, they will say if you don’t put an effort in your physical appearance, you’ll never have a spouse. that’s when you’ll remain calm and say, ‘fuck you’ with the warmest smile you can give a disheartener.

you know what you believe in, you know what you’re capable of and even if you don’t, you have the rest of your life to think about it, experiment. it’s never too late for anything and if anyone ever tells you that, just walk away.

negativity helps no one but the person making the negative statements, i think they get a sense of satisfaction when they put someone down (mentally).

don’t give anyone the chance to tell you who you are, what you’re supposed to do and what you’ll be in the future.

no one.

i’m not saying all people are jerks and you shouldn’t take advice from anyone. advice is great, advices guide us, help us make decisions even if we don’t really go for them, they give us options we might have never thought of, new ideas are nice. unless they confuse you more, confusion only makes you human.

inhale,

exhale,

inhale,

exhale..

remember to breathe.

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time capsule - i

listen,

sometimes, your worst days won’t be the ones when you feel sad, depressed, lonely, frustrated or even stressed with all work you need to get done.

your worst days will be the ones you feel numb, emotionless, not alive, still and it will suck. please occupy your mind with things that matter to you, let it pass smoothly or not, just let it pass.

don’t let it get to you, i hope you never feel this way.

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Winter Came Early This Year

A letter to my younger self, never mind actually, I’ve heard that the time traveling postal service sucks. A visit to my younger self, she needs it. First, let me hold you, and kiss your forehead. You need to learn that touch does not always equal pain, it’s going to take many years before you learn that, but I think out of everything I’m about to tell you this will help the most. Do you think we’re beautiful? Don’t answer that. It’s a question you’re going to spend the rest of our life up until this point trying to figure out. Please, even if you don’t always feel whole, don’t carve the word, “fat,” into your thigh on a desperate night when you’re alone in the bathtub. You will regret it.

This thought does not horrify you because at this point you’ve already bludgeoned our head with a hairbrush, tried to asphyxiate us, and pinched our own skin until we’ve been bruised. Don’t hurt us darling, there are already enough people doing that. In regards to the man who gave you a swollen cheek and shattered trust, you will become angry instead of scared one day and things will change, not necessarily for the better, but at least the physical pain will stop. I’m not going to tell you about our future love life, because you’re going to make mistakes whether I tell you or not, that’s life, but I will tell you not to focus on one boy so much. He’s still going to be one of your best friends, but he does not love you in that way, and that’s OK.

Trust me, there will be others. Do not leave the boy who gave you his jacket. You will regret that decision until this point, after this point, I am not sure. I may be from the future, but I am not from all of it. When you feel scared, touch something around you, reestablish your surroundings. This is a coping mechanism, you won’t learn about those for years to come. Stay strong, you’ll survive, trust me.

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Letter No. 1

 

Nothing will ever prepare you for the moment you dread. The calm before the storm is so aptly named because everyone’s quiet sobbing can hardly be heard above the screaming fear. You know me well enough to know that this is hard for me. Saying goodbye. To look, at that final moment, at the faces of the people who you may never see again, who you spent a year laughing with, crying over, worrying about, hating, loving, ridiculing. To know that, even though your sorrow is greater than anyone could possibly know, you’re almost required to enjoy it. To know that the faces I see as I turn and look, one last time, are not faces of sadness, no, but faces of barely concealed joy. To know that life will go on, that in two years it’ll be a struggle to remember I was there, in four to remember me, in eight to remember it. I understand, also, how pessimistic I’ve become. In writing these I was, as I’d like to be, happy and melancholy. I felt as if yours was the one in which I might express my sorrow. Friends aren’t replaceable. They aren’t things you forget about and take out every few years to play with just ‘cause. Friends impart a portion of their soul upon you, and you them. I’d like to say, at the end of the day, I have a friend. It’s innate human nature to want a friend, to want someone to share stories with you. Well, I wouldn’t really know.

I’ve always wondered if other people cry. I cry. I cry all the time. Maybe that’s just my medicine though.

Sorry about the stream-of-consciousness thing, I hope you’ll understand. Anything I want to say to you I already have. This is a formality, a finale, an end to a chapter. Now I begin anew, hopefully with one or two of the same characters.

Do you know what it means when I say ‘to teach?’ Probably not, because it’s a very specific, connotative definition. When I say that the best teachers are students, I mean it. All the education in the world couldn’t have taught me what teaching 45 minutes of freshmen did. When they looked up at me, their eyes were cold with hate. They knew I saw. They didn’t know it hurt. That day I learned the most important lesson I think I’ll ever learn, they’re wrong. It doesn’t matter how much you know or who you know or where you learned or where you’ve been. What matters is that single moment when I crack a smile instead of a whip and I turn from authority to equal. To accomplish both must be one of the hardest things, because I’ve yet to do it. Anyway, a student will tell you everything they know, even if you don’t care. A teacher will tell you half of what they know and they don’t care you don’t care. This year has been a journey of education wrapped up in the one class I feel I can talk about. I learned about basketball and vodka with Red Bull and One Direction and soccer and technology and cars and foursquare and Gamecube. I didn’t learn much Latin, but I did learn so much more.

In Central and South America, there are fish called geophagi. They don’t often eat other fish or plants or really anything. They sift through the gravel under them, eating the scraps from other creatures’ meals. No there’s a point I swear. When aquarists keep a geophagus, they get to see this feeding behavior. They also get to learn that these beautiful fish aren’t scavengers. They’re incredibly intelligent; they respond to different people in different ways; they can tell time; they understand. In life, I feel that each person should strive to be, as a geophagus, brilliant and beautiful without having to declare it to everyone, choosing only to display it to those whom you truly know.