2004-04-19
Dearest Kiko,I write you not because I wish to embarrass myself further with something that is so morally wrong as homosexuality. I write you because you must know all my faults and everything I know about myself.
I get angry easily and forgive easily, as you know. I don't forgive as easily, as you also know, to those who have cause any of my friends pain. Especially you. It will take me years to forgive Kyle S. and that man on the street who asked you to fuck him in freshman year. As you can remember, I punched that bastard hard and informed a cop.
You make me think of you. How you walk, how you dance, your sense of humor. I can't figure out what makes you think the way you do.
When I help you with history, you constantly ask questions. No, I do not know what made Hitler kill all those people. I do not know what made him tick. I do know that his aunt was jewish. I memorize facts and dates, while you constantly wonder why. Why, why, why, why?
I love your sense of humor. It's so different. You see things in a refreshing way. You notice little things about people. Little things about life. You can make jokes and pick up on things that ordinary people don't. I love it. You drive me crazy with all you do.
I love the way you analize people. Constantly thinking about their thoughts. You analize me all the time. I notice how you slowly look over, look up to my eyes while I'm reading beside you or watching t.v. with you. You think I'm not paying attention, but I notice it. You want to know me, as well.
I can see you wondering about me. About what happens in my home when you're not around. About what my life was like before you met me in fifth grade. I tell you nothing about myself past my favorite color and band (which you can recite all perfectly).
I can tell you want to ask. You pick the most random moment you can, as though you are just thinking about it. While we're folding laundry. While watching t.v., while doing homework. I can tell you're dying to ask, but you don't. You wouldn't. And that's how I like it. Though it comforts me to know you care.
I know a lot about you. Past your favorite color (the blue of your ceiling) your favorite band (Maroon 5; John Mayer;Norah Jones;That clarinet guy) I know that when you were six you made your yearly visit to Japan during the summer to visit your family, but when you got there, you were scarred for life because they dressed you up in a Komono (Right word? spelling?), thus ruining your entire wardrobe from red scarves forever. (loss, or no?) I know that when you were eight you were attacked by seagulls on the gulf of Mexico when you went with your family. I know that you have always loved math, doing long division when the rest of us when learning our times tables. I know that your father constantly pushes you to do better, even thought he should (in my opinion) be going after you older sister ( who does nothing).
I love all these things about you. I love thinking about you. I love knowing about you. I (secretly) love it when you correct my spelling, or tell me not to say "ain't" ( I don't say it that often, despite my family's urgings, thanks to you). I love it when you randomly spin around, showing your real personality, but how you would never do it in front of your family. I love it when you get frustrated and start muttering things in Japanese. When you over work yourself. I love so much about you, but there are things that make me mad:
When you decide to subconsciously manipulate me. When you get mad at me for weird reasons. When you correct my spelling too often. When you get tired and hang on my shoulder ( Okay, not annoying, cute and loved by me)
The good cancels out the bad.
I love you...I think like that...even though it's wrong...I won't get started on this now. I love you too much.
-Sarah
I love it when you don't read what I write about you.