Dear December,
I don't know what to write. I don't know what to write. I don't know what to write.
The best thing about textual blogging is that no one knows your day was utterly boring and you can bulllshit it to sound an adventure. 75% of my writing is artful metaphors and BIG IDEAS and abstract thoughts and the excessive use of the word 'and'. Only a small part of it are things that happen, and the rest is stuffing to keep it from crashing in a concentrated mass. I can write about anything, so long as it tastes like an elusive aesthetic and compound phrases sound pretty. I'm doing it right now.
December, do you remember what I said yesterday? About screwing him and screwing me and forgetting it? God, it is so, so, hard, when their eyes are big and green and full of 'I dare you' and a grin and a laugh and it feels natural before I stop and make myself shut up. I've done it before to other friends, other people. Now it's happening to me.
I'm not going to regret what I did. He's not, either. It's so easy to block out feelings when they're not your own.
December, I really don't even know what I'm writing. It's like the equivalent of being drunk and ten days away from winter break. I am so, so out of it.
For the first time tonight, I could see the stars.
Esther
YOU ARE READING
dear december
Non-FictionContinued from last month's Dear November letters. A little less angsty, a little more poetic. Originally done on Polyvore, by @writingtips' and @smileylina 's suggestion, who got the idea from Youtuber Carrie Fletcher's series 'Letters to Autumn'.
