Dear Mr. Sexy Jones—no, wait, it wasn't supposed to come out like that. Dear Mr. Va-Va-Voom—that doesn't sound right, either. Dear Mr. I-Want-In-Your-Pants—sigh. See what you made me do, Hand? Now I have to take out another stationery and restart the entire letter.
Oh, who writes letters nowadays? I do, of course. To hell with technology advancements! As long as I have a pencil, and as long as you aren't crushed, and as long as I have some piece of writing surface, then I am all set. Besides, receiving a letter was always much more endearing than getting some email. How do you frame and cherish something if it's filled with LOLLERSKATES and ROFL?
I thought so, Common Sense, so shut up and let me get back to dictating. And I swear to God, Nerve, if you back out on me one more time, I'm going to tie you to an imaginary stool and force you to watch me go to school in leopard pants. Does that terrify you? Make you want to curl up in a corner and cry? Well, it should, because I'm going to hold that threat very closely. And Hand, do please try to stay with me. Don't be swayed by every nerve impulse that comes along your way.
Right. Now, where was I?
Dear Tom Jones,,—oh, crap, I added another comma by mistake. What's he going to think about me now, the straight-A girl in English class who couldn't even use proper punctuation? Brain, just what were you thinking? And it was on a new sheet of paper, too! I swear, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were losing your touch. Excuse me? Don't talk to me that way! I own you, so you'd better give me some proper respect! Now get your act together so we can finish this thing before Nerve decides to wet his pants from too much anticipation—what was that? No, no, I definitely think it's anticipation, Nerve, not a phobia of confession or anything of that rubbish.
Back to the letter. OK, I'm definitely not going to waste this one, because the paper is just too cute and expensive; I forked over ten dollars for thirty-sheets, which is ridiculous. It comes with scratch-and-sniff stickers, though, so I was slightly justified. See? Smell it, Nose, and tell me what it is. Why, yes it is. Strawberry ice cream galore!
Oh, right. Mr. Jones will not want a stationery that's already been scratched. But I didn't really scratch it—just slightly rubbed it with my fingernail. So it's all good. Now, let's try to fix that punctuation error. What can we do, Brain? Hand? Anyone?
Instant brilliance! Just smudge a little bit here—and there—and you missed a spot, Hand—oh, perfect! Let's continue with the letter, shall we?
Dear Tom Jones…
I don't think it's too informal, Brain. Actually, I think it's too formal! But never mind. It works out fine. Let's continue.
You might not know me—no, no, no! It's too direct now. Bad nerve impulse, bad! Start again, from the Tom Jones part.
SCRIBBLEBALDERDASHBIGSPOTHERE You might know me from English period 6. Shoot. I'm supposed to spell it out. You might know me from English period SPOTSPOT six. It's been 5—SPOT five months since school start, and—SPOTSPOTSPOTSPOT since school started—SPOTSPOTSPOT since school started, and I've been watching you for a while.
… Oh gosh, Brain, that sounds so stalker-like. I blame Feeling, who's starting to infringe on everything. You annoying twat, butting your big, fat nose in. You've done enough damage already—just stay in the corner with Nerve and let me dictate something for fifteen minutes. Like my life.
Go! Go, or I'll fetch Insecurity and force him to smother you!
Anyways. SPOTOFDOOM and I've noticed you for a while. You're very smooth-talking DARKSPOT You're very easygoing, and teenyspot and generally have an affable nature around you. Wonderful. What else should I say now? No, don't you dare start doodling, Hand! I've kept you in line so far, and I'm not about to draw Goodbye Kitty© corporate logos all over the place. Now, let's see, what else can we include?
Your eyes are as green as the weeds in my mother's garden bed, your hair as brown as the caked mud at the very bottom of my father's Coyote© truck, and your dressing style as cool as my eleven year old wangster of a brother. Not to mention— HOLEINPAPER Oh God, what is this, Hand? WHAT IS THIS. I told you not to write without consent! I don't care if you think he's a completely douchebag; Feeling decided a long time ago that jerks were in, so you have no say in trying to sabotage our soon-to-be relationship!
…Well, duh, that's why I said soon-to-be. He's going to recognize my existence soon enough, so there—what? Butt out of this, Brain! Nobody asked for your opinion. You're here to generate a good love letter, and nothing else. No, no, no, don't try and turn this around. You listen to me; if I wanted to hear crap all day, I would've paid Butt, all right? End of discussion, now start writing.
I think you're reallyterrific SPOTSPOT really terrific SPOTSPOT really terrific, and I've always thought you were cute. Please consider me as an alternative to priesthood SPOTSPOTSPOTSPOTSPOT Please consider me as an alternative to that slut girlfriend of yours SPOTSPOTSPOTSPOTSPOTSPOSPOTSPOT Please consider me as an alternative—Why is that word even there? SPOTSPOT Please consider me for a girlfriend. Maybe that's pushing it. SPOTSPOT Please consider me for a date. Good.
Sincerely, SPOTSPOT Pleasure's all mine, SPOTSPOTSPOT Hopefully, Sally SPOTSPOTSPOT Right, I forgot the letter format for a moment.
Whew, that took a while. Dear God, two hours to write a simple note? Bah. Brain's all fizzled out, aren't you? No, we're not using a computer. Now let's proofread this so I can pass it to Tom tomorrow.
Dear Tom Jones…
SCRIBBLEBALDERDASHBIGSPOTHERE You might know me from English period SPOTSPOT six. It's been SPOT five months SPOTSPOTSPOTSPOTSPOTSPOTSPOT since school started, and I've noticed you for a while. DARKSPOT You're very easygoing teenyspot and generally have an affable nature around you. HOLEINPAPER I think you're SPOTSPOT SPOT SPOT really terrific, and I've always thought you were cute. SPOTSPOTSPOTSPOTSPOT SPOTSPOTSPOTSPOTSPOTSPOSPOTSPOT Please consider me as SPOTSPOT a SPOTSPOT date.
…Maybe I'll send an email after all. Stop smirking, Brain. Yeah, yeah, so letters aren't exactly romantic nowadays. Let's just do an email. It'll make things easier, OK?
U n me 4 wntrfst?
SEND. Holding a pencil felt really weird, right, Hand? It was like holding an alien or something. Oh well. I never wanted to write a "letter" in the first place. Insanity took over for a bit, but now I'm sensible again, and boy am I glad I didn't go through with that letter thing.
I mean, writing it was so overrated anyways.