_{Letters to Strangers}

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Dear You,

You called me a cynic today, and I don't think that's quite fair, but I don't think I'm going to go off of that (after all, wouldn't that be a little cynical?) And yet in the same exact sentence you told me that the world never went the way you wanted it too (and, well, isn't that a little cynical? Or perhaps selfish, I mean I could call you selfish, but I think that might be a little selfish, right?) Or maybe I could call you lazy for just sitting there and letting life pass you by - but in the same instant here I am writing a letter which you will never read, not doing my homework, and not in any way bettering my own life in any way except to take this squid attached to my chest - it's many tentacles wrapping around me - and throw it back into the water.

So, it seems, that no matter which ugly word I use it comes back at me in some way. I just can't get away with insulting you. I mean I'm not entirely saying I want to insult you - and I know that you didn't want to insult me (I mean, in all manners, you told me you loved me afterward, but I still don't find a point. I mean to call an optimist a cynic is sort of like calling a frog a toad, one of them is going to get insulted no matter what you do.)

But, well, to be honest, I am an optimist that takes an entirely cynical view of the world. I think some people might call that a realist but then again, well, I'm not exactly realistic, either. So what am I?

I took a personality test this morning in order to possibly figure out what I want to do with my life (as usual, still failing), but at the same time that I was taking this 'test' I felt like I was insulting myself. I mean, can I really be routed into one of six categories? Is that really necessary? Does everything have to be filed, alphabetized, stamped, approved, sent out, shipped back, remade, remodeled, repainted, and then gone through a second run? I'm kind of tired of it, to be honest. But then again, maybe you were right, maybe I'm just being cynical.

And today I sat without you on a bus with nice seats, with my feet draped over some flashy guy with blond streaks for bangs listening to Mickey Avalon and enjoying myself, and no one called me a cynic. They called me a little weird for screaming "I'VE GOT A DICK LIKE JESUS" on a bus full of crowded strangers, but hey, some blond kid was screaming with me, so, well. I don't know. I bet I was being selfish because I was invading their ears with...

Well doesn't this just seem like a bunch of nonsense? Now I'm just rambling on about some blond kid on a bus singing songs that are highly inappropriate (although my counselor was laughing and singing along, doesn't that seem a little odd? Kind of like that time I went to that art show with your mom and on the way back you and I wrote naughty things on the back of the car window for everyone to read? Yeah, that was a little odd, right?).

I'm so tired of things being bad all the time. Bad. I think the bastard who domesticated the concept of the "evil" and the "sin" should be bludgeoned.

... but isn't that a little bit cynical?

I guess I could say I love you, too. I mean, to love a cynic is kind of a hard thing to do, but seeing as how it's also hard to get away from, well, I guess we're both screwed no matter where we look. And it seems so awkward to publicize that like this, but seeing as how it doesn't really matter anyway, I figure I might as well.

I am a cynic, I suppose. If you really want to call me that. And you are, too. And so is your mother, and your neighbor, your dog, father, more than likely your little sister will grow to be one. And this is entirely cynical, and there is a point to it.

I am, indeed, what I am.
I love myself no less for it, I hate to tell you,
and despite the fact that you feel the need to tell me who I am -
I love you, too.