HOME | DD

Description
this isn't the kind of letter that starts off with "dear," because we're not that kind of proper. sometimes i don't think we're any kind of proper, considering the way we crash into each other with even the slightest of disagreements. we're improper because we don't talk about things like love; we prefer to keep our conversations dulled to those of porn and drugs and catalysts. we lay in bed all day smoking cigarettes and having conversations like,

"nothing will happen to you if i'm there. i'll protect my baby." (that's you, and it sounds sweet, but it's really kind of cliche.)
"what if there's an elephant stampede?" (that's me.)
"i'll shoot them." (because you're good at making things like guns romantic.)
"what if my car overturns and catches fire?" (this is where i test you. let's see how you answer this one.)
"i'll pull you out of the flames." (that's you again. good answer.)
"what if there's an alien invasion?" (i want you to say that you'll get all brad-pitt-sexy on their asses and take them out, but what you say is
"you're fucked."

you will probably be surprised when you realize that i remember this conversation. the undignified way we lust about doesn't provide for long-term memories or adoration for specifics, but even though you aren't a sundance film romantic, i write about you because i don't know how not to. (i write about all things that find a place in my heart, though usually the softest spot is reserved for some off-beat boy with raven vocal chords and anti-anxiety pills in his pocket. the most ironic and comical thing here is that off-beat boys are not really atypical at all. you, with your cropped hair and college education, are atypical, to me at least.)

the only way i can describe our irregular patterns of bashing heads (and so early for a relationship, too!) is by comparing them to conceptual fuck-ups with distorted senses. being with you is like smelling the color red, like tasting a fire alarm, and like hearing a ripe tomato. the thought of these things is just so droll and i can't help but love every second of our quirky perception.

we are not callow enough to think that will not be times when this peculiarity gets the best of us. for that (and for today's instance when i hurt you): i am so, so sorry.

i won't classify you like i do the off-beat boys. i won't talk about indigo-ocean eyes or go into too much detail about the silver-screen way we'd been introduced (a new year's eve party and you kissed me at midnight). i won't pin unorthodox adjectives on you (see: letters to former boyfriends) or write you up into a pretty box and sign it with a satin bow.

even if our sensations are fucked, you are tangible. you feel concrete at six in the morning when i wake up all sweaty because the sun is beating down through the window on us. in all of this, i want you to know: i feel you.

i feel you.

(i've been told that i feel too much, but i really feel the same as everyone else; i just know how to put it on paper.)

in all of this, what i'm really trying to tell you is that i still think you're brad-pitt-sexy even if you won't kill aliens to save me.

:) (Smile) — Description
this isn't the kind of letter that starts off with "dear," because we're not that kind of proper. sometimes i don't think we're any kind of proper, considering the way we crash into each other with even the slightest of disagreements. we're improper because we don't talk about things like love; we prefer to keep our conversations dulled to those of porn and drugs and catalysts. we lay in bed all day smoking cigarettes and having conversations like,

"nothing will happen to you if i'm there. i'll protect my baby." (that's you, and it sounds sweet, but it's really kind of cliche.)
"what if there's an elephant stampede?" (that's me.)
"i'll shoot them." (because you're good at making things like guns romantic.)
"what if my car overturns and catches fire?" (this is where i test you. let's see how you answer this one.)
"i'll pull you out of the flames." (that's you again. good answer.)
"what if there's an alien invasion?" (i want you to say that you'll get all brad-pitt-sexy on their asses and take them out, but what you say is
"you're fucked."

you will probably be surprised when you realize that i remember this conversation. the undignified way we lust about doesn't provide for long-term memories or adoration for specifics, but even though you aren't a sundance film romantic, i write about you because i don't know how not to. (i write about all things that find a place in my heart, though usually the softest spot is reserved for some off-beat boy with raven vocal chords and anti-anxiety pills in his pocket. the most ironic and comical thing here is that off-beat boys are not really atypical at all. you, with your cropped hair and college education, are atypical, to me at least.)

the only way i can describe our irregular patterns of bashing heads (and so early for a relationship, too!) is by comparing them to conceptual fuck-ups with distorted senses. being with you is like smelling the color red, like tasting a fire alarm, and like hearing a ripe tomato. the thought of these things is just so droll and i can't help but love every second of our quirky perception.

we are not callow enough to think that will not be times when this peculiarity gets the best of us. for that (and for today's instance when i hurt you): i am so, so sorry.

i won't classify you like i do the off-beat boys. i won't talk about indigo-ocean eyes or go into too much detail about the silver-screen way we'd been introduced (a new year's eve party and you kissed me at midnight). i won't pin unorthodox adjectives on you (see: letters to former boyfriends) or write you up into a pretty box and sign it with a satin bow.

even if our sensations are fucked, you are tangible. you feel concrete at six in the morning when i wake up all sweaty because the sun is beating down through the window on us. in all of this, i want you to know: i feel you.

i feel you.

(i've been told that i feel too much, but i really feel the same as everyone else; i just know how to put it on paper.)

in all of this, what i'm really trying to tell you is that i still think you're brad-pitt-sexy even if you won't kill aliens to save me.