I'm not good with e-mails to famous people. I tried to write to Hanson once, and I blanked...
I'm sure this is going to make it into the right hands, but in case it does not for some reason (though I'm sure it will, because you still read this journal), will someone please make sure it gets to the right person? Thank you.
____________________________________
Dearest, darlingest Ashley (middle name) P___ (censored, but you still know who you are, since you read this all the time, and I know you do),
There have been some many occasions when I've wanted to tell you exactly what I feel about you. I've just swallowed those words, however, for the sake of being polite and tactful. Frankly, in light of recent events, I have no more desire to be polite and tactful. So, forget all that good manners shit. This is where I stop being polite, and starting being honest.
I am not quite sure when this overwhelming sense of... annoyance with you started, but it's just grown worse and worse as time has went along. Don't get me wrong: there was a time when I could stomach your company, a time when I actually liked you. You have your now brief and shinning moments, maybe a week or so, when you are capable of being a good friend. But they are, like I said, brief and shinning, especially nowadays.
I suppose it all started when you began developing this need for attention. I had the sneaking suspicion for almost a year now that everything you do, you do it for the attention. You have been proving me right more and more. What got old the fastest was the whole "Oh, woe is me!! I'm so tragic!! My life is so terrible, no one even knows!! I think I'll just cut my wrists, drink my blood, then choke and die" routine you seem to love so much. That became passé (not to mention terribly annoying) in the blink of an eye. It's really quite sad that you have to stoop to that for attention. I couldn't even begin to count the many times you told me that you were going to do it, that you had thought about it, when you showed up at school in armwarmers. Really, you are just like the rest of that Emo-wannabe crowd, listening to all these bands and thinking you know anything about them, cutting yourself because people will make a scene about it.
More and more, I've began to realize that you are, emotionally, the equivalent to a leech. You can't let anything go. You can't take things for what they are. If someone shows you the least bit of interest, you have to have them around all the time. Everything in the world has to have a meaning about it. All eyes have to be on you. Which is the reason you decided to play the lesbian game. But, you know, you don't like girls. You just spent near a month dating, making out, and saying you loved a girl. You just dated one of your ex-friends (Danielle), who happens to be a girl. You dated Holli. You just spent what... three weeks annoying me to the point of insanity about a kiss and trying to see if it meant anything "because you needed to know." But, no, you don't like girls at all. From the beginning, everyone had their doubts as to your sincerity in your claims, and a few of us gave you the benefit of the doubt, but it turns out we were right in the end: you really were following the crowd once again. You jumped on the bandwagon of Happy, Merry, Funtastical Bisexualhood like everyone else in school because, nowadays, it's the cool thing to do. Do you feel proud of yourself? Did you have fun? Was it all magical and spectacular and make everyone love you? Glad you feel so comfortable making a mockery of others lifestyles. Just so long as you have someone to dote on you and people think you're cool and attractive and pay attention to you, anything goes. Even if you don't have the balls to own up to dating a girl, but you don't date girls, because you're not bisexual. How silly of me to forget.
That is the reason you dress the way you do, isn't it? All punked up and cleveage hanging out. Oh yeah, baby, that gets my fires going. Not as much as the stripper underwear constantly hanging out the back of your pants. Yummmmm... It's all an attentional ploy. You know how to work it, and you work it hard. You attract all these people, and then you complain about them when they come to expect you to follow through with what you communicate. Or the way you use people, and think it's cool. One of the most bothersome things you have ever said to me came up one time we were on the phone and you started talking about your friend (at least, she believed you two were friends), Caroline. Remember? You said the only reason you talked to Caroline at all was because she has a hottub. I wonder if she knows that, or if you're still stringing her along. Like you do Jeff, who you say you can't stand, yet you continue talking to him. Like you strung Jessica along.
You know, I saw it coming a mile away, starting that day at Gina's birthday party. From the moment you gave her your phone number, I had an uneasy feeling in the pity of my stomach. Call it woman's intuition, call it clairvoyance, call it knowing you. Call it what you will, but as we can see, I was right. I'm not blaming the whole thing on you, because I know she had a hand in it as well, but what happened to "not liking Jessica that way?" Isn't that what you told me on the phone that day when things started going up in flames? I think it was. Or maybe I was just hearing things. Because, you know, you would never do anything like that to me. You love me too much, isn't that right? Heh. I guess we saw how much you "love me." But, whatever. Things have run their course, and all I can say is, what goes around, comes around. Just keep that in mind.
One of the things that irks me the most about you, aside from you being a sheep (and yes, you are a sheep, you cute little lamb, you!), is that every time something like this happens between us, you go around asking all of my friends why I'm mad at you. When they have no idea what you are talking about, you see fit to fill them in, and sadly, they buy into your little sob story about Big Bad Slut-bucket Ashley and her means of persecuting you that day. We can't blame them for believing you, though; you have the Emmy-worthy talents of playing things up and making people feel sorry for you. What's really dumb in this case is that we have the same second period, and you pretend like I don't even exsist, you won't even look at me, but then you go whinning to anyone who will listen, and "try to find out why I'm mad at you." Good going there, honey. You can go crying to them all you want this time. I don't know how much pity you'll be getting after the way you and Jessica screwed me over.
I don't want to hear your apologies. I don't want your explainations. I especially don't want you to start up with that whole "I'm leaving it all in your hands, if you want to talk to me, then come to me" tripe. Just go on pretending like I don't exsist. That's the best thing for all parties involved, because Friday, it really took everything I had in me not to run up and punch you in the back of the head during second period.
This letter may have sounded mean. It may have been mean. Despite that, its purpose was to be honest. Maybe you'll learn something from all this, and you can better yourself. Or maybe you'll just keep acting the way you do. Most likely the second, but I really don't care anymore. To me, you're just another bundle of fleece in the flock. Congratulations on that. You've reached a level with me not many people reach. The circumstances have changed, so I'm drawing new battle lines. This is my line, stay on your side of it. No RSVPs, please.
Since you know so much about Jack off Jill and all that, you'll enjoy this. This one's dedicated to you, sweetheart. Just like it was written for you.
"Author Unknown"
Check your diction
Search your memory
Create your history
Still not true
Write your novel
Pick and shovel
You will need them when I bury you
No forgiveness, you're no martyr
Sell yourself
Make it true
Check your grammar
your bad nature
Exaggerations still not true
Ask your question and listen closely
Here's your answer
It's still fuck you
No forgiveness, you're no martyr
Sell yourself
Make it true
There's no price tag on my conscience
here's your answer it's still
FUCK YOU
I met a man who was gone in a day
He grabbed my hands
Memories flashed away
I met a man who was once on my side
he wrote a book
and now everyone lies
NO
No forgiveness, you're no martyr
Sell yourself
make it true
There's no price tag on my conscience
here's your answer it's still
FUCK YOU