So I saw you today.
I was walking down the main road, and you were sitting on the curb with a stick of licorice hanging from your mouth. Maybe I should have said hi, introduced myself, but I didn’t .
To be honest, I wouldn’t be great company.
But maybe you don’t need company; everyday, I see you reading, your head bent over a different book. I know characters are better than friends—their worlds are logical, constructed carefully by the authors, with likeable leading men, shy yet beautiful women, and just enough realism. I’d much prefer spending a day with Hermione than I would with my Uncle Jerry because, while she probably smells like butter beer, he'd most likely smell like rotten fish.
My sister insisted we go to your house for supper, and, though she wore down my mom, she didn’t get to me. Who knows why she wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood, but something tells me she has a crush on your brother. Anyway, by now you’ve met my family; they’re pretty normal, not at all like me. Maybe you even liked them?
The thing is: I don’t want to talk to you, or anyone else, really. ‘Cause, if I do, maybe you’ll be disappointed that I’m not as intelligent or idiotic as I come across in my writing. Maybe I’ll be less interesting, or maybe I’ll be more. Either way, our relationship would be ruined.
So I’m writing.
Because, when I write, there’s always an eraser.
