An Open Letter to Someone

Dear Someone,

I miss you and I don't even know you. For all I know, 10 years after I marry you I will find out you're a serial killer/rapist like that Stephen King novel/Claremont rapist (was it Claremont? Or was it Claremont train station? Or do I just associate Claremont with all shit things in Perth?).

I'm just thinking out loud here but consider this: I'm, for the most part, a prickly pear. People have difficulty seeing past the persona I project (slightly gloomy, unfriendly and severe). Maybe you have or maybe you were paid to marry me (like 10 Things I Hate About You... if that's the case, I'll take Heath). Regardless, thanks because, as Tina Fey would say, now I have someone to help me if I'm choking on the microwave meal I'm eating on a Typical Tuesday Night listening to the Kind of Music you don't like (inevitably, we end up in a fight about how annoying I am with my annoying music and then you kick me out of our cockroach-infested apartment and I resort to prostituting myself to support my cocaine habit/unborn child. By the way, it's yours. The cocaine, that is. The unborn child belongs to this guy named, Steve. Yeah, Steve. I met him on the comedy circuit. God, I could just climb him for hours. Literally. And I still wouldn't hit the summit... Depending on what you consider the "summit" if you know what I mean. Wink wink wink wink).

So, I went off on a tangent there, Someone. Forgive me.

The point is, I was just thinking just then how nice it would be to have Someone. On the other hand, I like to think that boredom is an insult to myself. So wanting a relationship (Someone) is an insult to myself. I can be romantic with myself (heh, masturbation joke. But no) and I consider it an insult to myself to even crave for a second having a romantic partner (to be fair, I'm in a strange stage in my luteal phase).

To be frank, Someone, the only thing I'll ever use you for is your spermage. The plan is to have as many kids as I have dogs. And God knows I love dogs. It's kind of just a back-up plan in case the zombie apocalypse hits so my dogs will have a temporary food source (joke in bad taste/unfunny/gross. I still enjoy it. But kidding, my kids will be like my children. Sorry, did I say kids? I meant dogs. No, kids. I hope no authorities ever read this post).

To conclude this post of GREAT AND TERRIBLE VULNERABILITY (I feel like Libba Bray is a very apt name for an author. It's like Library... but not): Dear Someone, come soon. Because for the last three days I've been eating leftovers and it would be really nice to have an excuse to cook for Someone else.

Love you (maybe not. Could be an abusive relationship... but I consider that an insult to myself),

J