I don't know if it's naiveté or what. Every time you say something to me, I hope to myself, "It'll be different now."

But.

But.

You log on, "HEY~"

And before I even respond – before I even exist to you –

"Guess what happened~"

And here it comes again. Why do I even matter here? You are going to tell me, like yesterday like the day before that and the weeks before that and the months before that you are going to tell me something that happened to you and all of your sentences will contain I or me and they will be punctuated with smiley faces and ~squiggly lines~ because, because I don't know, do you know it annoys me? No, you don't, you wouldn't, you would have no idea.

Do you know anything about me? Call me 'best friend' and how do you justify it?

God, but shut up about yourself once in a while! God but be humble sometimes, I mean, just sometimes! But every time I talk to you, every single fucking time, you want to tell me about the boy who hugged you today (and he didn't say anything but you know what it meant and everyone says you two would make an adorable couple anyways) or how you were in the top whatever fucking percent for some national test and you qualified for something and

Oh haha, isn't it so totally ridiculous how your dad wants you to reply to that mail from Princeton? How inconvenient it is that you are just so smart and wonderful. It's a good thing you have me here so that I can understand how smart and wonderful you are. It's a good thing you like to tell me about all the wonderful things that happen to you. It's a good thing I know what happened at prom. It's a good thing you tell me all the TV shows you watch.

It's a good thing you keep talking when I don't reply.

It's a good thing you never listen if I try to say something.

It's a good thing you almost always ignored what I said.

It's a good thing I stopped saying things after a while.

It's a good thing you never noticed when I stopped saying anything. It's a good thing you didn't mention it, at least.

How socially fucking unaware are you? I don't reply! I don't care, not anymore! I'm sorry I don't try and force my way into your preening session! God, Jesus, Buddha! The time you don't spend complaining you spend updating your status so that everyone knows any inconsequential thought you might have! Don't you care about anything else? I think that's the crux of it.

I cannot remember a time in the last four months when you talked about something other than yourself. Passionately, at least.

SAT studying. Boys who like you. Girls who like you. Boys who liked you, girls who liked you. Minor internet celebrities who replied to your Twitter post oh my god. SAT scores. Reviews, alerts, favorites. Clothing. School. The TV show that made you cry. Writing. Reading. Oh my god you started a new story, better tell me about it. Better not read the three new stories I've tried to write. Grades, school. The teacher who always gives you A's. I can't think of anything. I can't think of anything you talk about that isn't about how wonderful and amazing you are.

If you were a flower you would be the narcissus.

No you wouldn't. You'd be a tulip.

(don't wish for too much

only do things within your ability

live simply

…but why, when I've told myself this so many times

am I still jealous of other people's freedom?

I'm jealous of everyone

I have pride, too, but that makes the envy deeper

…I guess this is what people turn into

when they don't fight or storm off

at least once)

I've tried to tell you. I've tried more than once. You just don't listen. Every time you talk to me I get angry and sad but you don't notice. My heart feels squeezy and starts to cry but you don't notice because it doesn't affect you enough to be part of your world. Or at least, it doesn't affect you enough to be a compliment for you. Have you noticed? Have you? Maybe you did. Maybe you don't care enough to say anything. Maybe you think I'm you and that I say everything I'm thinking. I'm not you. I'm not melodramatic enough.

Each time I say something. Every time I imply that I might not care. Or that you're annoying me. Every time I stop hiding the boiling molasses anger you act so ridiculous. Maybe you're normal and I'm freakish but I don't care because if being normal means acting like the world's falling down if anyone ever implies anything might be wrong with you and telling the world "MY TIME QUOTA IS UP" and pretending everything is falling apart when you don't need me you need a puppy to listen and wag its tail – if that's normal I'm fine being disconnected and apathetic.

I guess this is pretty melodramatic.

But at least I'm not acting like the whole world needs to know it.

I just know I need to know it.

I'm not you.

Stop expecting me to act like you.

Haven't you read Sula? No. You didn't even listen to that part I read aloud to you. It's about how people always look for themselves in other people. It's also about how they never succeed. You aren't that deep. "Few things are as amusing as a young man who has discovered an old idea and thinks it his own."

I tried to tell you.

I gave you a link to a story! I gave it to you, right there! I didn't write it but it's practically about me. I know that's self-absorbed. I'm sorry. Not to you, just in general. But when I read it I understand every single word because. Because.

Please stop pretending you care what I think.

Do you know anything about me?

I will tell you how often you update your facebook status:

"54 minutes ago."

"An hour ago."

"An hour ago."

They are all irrelevant. They are all unfunny. They are all useless.

You don't know me.

Youdon'tknowmeyoudon'tknowmeyoudon'tknowme.

If you read what I wrote, you would know me, but you do not do that anymore.

You will not read this.

You will have the option and you will not.

I have noticed this difference between artists and scientists:

Artists talk about themselves. They talk about expressing themselves through art, or their opinions, or who they know.

Scientists talk about science. They are enthusiastic people. They are fascinated by the world. They attempt to understand it.

Please understand that I do not hate you.