[9.27]
Richie,
I don't know how to start this, and I really don't know why I'm writing to you in the first place.
I mean, it's not like you'll ever see this, this is just a way for me to express my emotions without actually having to vocalize them.
I've been in a sort of slump lately. Everyone seems to have noticed just how disconnected I've been. How much it hurts. Except for you, obviously.
This morning, at my locker, Ben and Bill handed me a box wrapped in newspaper. "Consider it an early birthday present," they said.
My birthday isn't for another two months.
I decided to open it anyways, and it turns out, it wasn't a box, it was a journal.
As I opened it, they looked at me with this look in their eyes, Richie. Maybe it was pity, or maybe even empathy, but it felt so condescending. I could feel myself shrinking under their gazes as I held this bulky, moleskin, 600 page journal in my hands.
"Bill and I were talking about how we write when we feel. . .out of it," is what Ben said to me, with a pregnant pause between words feel and out. It's like they were parents explaining to a five year old that their dog died without wanting to reveal to the child the terrifying reality that's comes with mortality.
It's like they were telling me to actually do something with myself instead of mope and sulk around over you every second of the day.
But at the same time, I don't think they were very far off. I guess 'out of it' is a decent way to describe it.
They didn't say much after that, but I understood. 'write out your feelings and you'll suddenly feel better!!' Yeah, bullshit.
But as I sat in study during fourth period, I could feel the weight of this stupid journal in my backpack. So I took it out, and I stared at it.
It was like the black leather was taunting me, bringing me into the stupid void that screamed at me to write out what's making me feel so 'disconnected' lately.
So here I am, sat at my bedroom desk (the one you've bumped into so many times climbing through the window right next to it just so you could fall asleep next to me), pouring out my fucking soul to you, when you'll probably never ever read this, and my feelings will continue to stay locked up, but this time, they'll be locked into this bulky, black journal.
During study, I couldn't help but think, 'Bill and Ben know, don't they? They know why these past few months have been fucking awful for me? And if they know, do all the others? Does Richie know?'
But you don't know. You haven't known for all these years, but to all of our friends it probably seems obvious at this point.
Because Richie, you were my first friend. You were my first best friend, and you will continue to be my closest friend. You will continue to be the most clever, witty, caring, attractive, charming and the most intelligent person I have met and probably will ever meet.
Even though you continue you ace all of your AP classes and have a 4.0 grade point average, you're also the dumbest person I've ever met.
