Dear Michelle,

Do you know how scary it is for a letter to turn up in your mailbox, addressed from someone you have never heard of in your entire life before?

I do.

And has it been made even scarier, with them telling you that they're your cousin, when your father has told you you have no relations?

Apparently not.

So forgive me, if I sound a little edgy as if I don't trust you. Of course, why wouldn't I trust you? I have every reason to trust you, and not think you got my address out of the Yellow Pages and am writing to me under a false name, so after two weeks you can come STALK ME.

Hello there Michelle.

My name is Veronica, and I am also fifteen years old. How strange it is that both our mothers had big bellies with us in them at the same time, yes? I find that extremely hilarious. I go to Hillaware High School, and my best friend is in hospital with a broken leg, trying to jump off the roof of her house. She hates me.

I think storms are fantastic, too. I always wish for a bolt of lightning to hit an electrical line outside, so it would cut off all light in our house, but it never happens. I get so thoroughly pissed off everytime we don't get a blackout. I want to light candles. Sometimes I want to burn the whole house down.
I cannot believe you hate music. Everybody likes music. Even if it's crap music. How can you survive without music? Do you sit there on a chair rocking back and forth staring at the wall in front of you, while a trail of dribble is running down your chin? I just don't understand. I guess music is just such a big part of my life, I'm just shocked that I'd live to meet someone who hates intertwined melodies. It's like magic, you know, Michelle.

If you get the impression I'm preaching or whatever, I assure you, I'm not.

I'm not.

(Can you wait a minute while I calm myself? Thanks.

I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not.

I feel much better.)

I hate books. I don't see why you should read, when someone could tell you the story for you. I prefer spoken, summarised, versions that cut the bullshit out. No frills. See?
But I do hate people who ruin endings. Like in cinemas, there's this bastard sitting right behind you, munching on his godforsaken popcorn while he mutters loudly, "Oh, THIS IS THE PART WHEN BILLYBOB UNINTENTIONALLY SLAYS THE KING AND CAUSES SHOCKING HAVOC AROUND THE VILLAGE. IT'S GREAT, JUST WATCH, JUST WATCH!"
But I do that to people who read books which I've already heard the story of. Then they try to kill me, screaming loud expletives and trying to stab me with pages. I don't have to tell you, it's never worked.

Causing you much un-needed bother,

Veronica.

P.S. Your letter writing skills do suck.
P.P.S. Would you mind sending me a birth certificate and your passport? I would like to confirm that you are indeed a relation and not a crazy psychopath who plans on raping me in a dark alleyway. Thank you very much.