Chocolate Peppers, Octopus Migraines

Dear _____,

CHOCOLATE PEPPERS GIVE MY OCTOPUS MIGRAINES. Allow me to explain the purpose of that sentence. You see, I've been staring at this intimidating blank white page of virtual paper for almost two full episodes of Friends now (that's an hour to the uninitiated), hoping fervently for an overwhelming insight to strike me and a perfectly shaped first sentence to spontaneously and effortlessly form itself like a Play-Doh Venus de Milo in my head — flawless, exquisite and timeless. Alas, no such sentence has appeared, and my cramped brain aches and pounds against my skull, taut and strained with the effort of trying not to think too hard. Hence, "Chocolate peppers give my octopus migraines." That said and explained, and I am well on my way, once more in the most comfortable of situations (typing faster than I have time to think), and enough space has been filled that I am less intimidated by the blank whiteness of this page. ("Less" is of course a relative term, meaning in this instance "somewhat less prone to throwing up or to an outburst of Tourettes than I was ten minutes ago.")

I know you don't really know me yet; in fact, currently we happen to be in the exact middle of that hopelessly awkward "what do I say next, does he like me, gee he's cute, I hope he's not a serial killer" introductory phase. So of course I have to be intentionally difficult and complicate matters further by attempting in this painful, clumsy manner to actually increase the awkwardness of the situation — if that is possible — and actually come out and verbalize the stuff one is supposed to keep safely tucked away in the back bottom drawer of the storage unit inside one's head until at least the third phase (i.e., the "You're great, we have a deep and meaningful relationship, I hope you're not a serial killer" phase.) Simply stated, what I am attempting here — pitifully, I might add, and rather less than successfully — is in some pseudo-sophisticated manner to time-warp us back to the third grade. Make sure your seatbacks are in their fully upright and locked position. Barf bags are in the pocket to your left. Oh god, it's official, this must be the first love letter ever to contain two references to vomit in as many paragraphs.

Now, of course, all composure has been unceremoniously jettisoned, and I wave a fond adieu to whatever remnants of dignity I might moments ago have possessed. Uh... third grade, is where I was: the good old days of I Like You, Do You Like Me, Please Check Yes Or No. Deja Vu. Welcome back. We missed you here in the land of the hopelessly uncool. Alright, now I am teetering dangerously on the edge of pretension and using increasingly elaborate and nonsensical narrative to distance myself from the utter vulnerability to which I have inexplicably yet willingly subjected myself with the inane idea of writing this letter. I would just give up were it not for the fact that I would hate to see such a deliciously Seussian turn of phrase like "chocolate peppers give my octopus migraines" die in vain. So here goes nothing. Well, actually, a lot of things.

I really like you a lot (she starts off like a big nerd.) It's not often like me to say that so quickly, but I feel really connected to you — like I've known you much longer than I have, and can trust you longer than that. I think you like me too; I think I see it in the way you look at me, and — correct me if I'm wrong, but — you don't strike me as the type to lightly miss a televised sporting event in which you are interested, probably almost never for the sake of casual conversation with a stranger. I hope I'm right; I hope I'm at least not entirely wrong; I hope I haven't just sent you running for the hills, running in screaming terror, running far, far away from the crazy lady with the fantastic self-important delusions of philosophical fairytale romance. Forgive me for rambling, I do that when I'm nervous. You've probably noticed and been too polite to say so. You seem like that type.

I don't think it's apparent yet, but this was meant to be a letter of petition, though for what exactly I am trying to petition I wish I better understood. I would like nothing better than to go back to middle school — middle school in a perfect world, of course — and ask you to go steady with me, but this is the Adult World (augh, the Adult World), where going steady is not touching knees, laughing too loud, holding hands, movie theater popcorn, private jokes and magical innocent starlit nights of everything perfect and nothing known. No, in the Adult World going steady is all about status and progression, supply and demand, magic vaporized with economic advantage sliding smoothly forward to take its spot. I could never be that kind of automated robo-girl, serving as nothing more than a placeholder and sign of the times. If I lead you to anticipate that, you will be massively disappointed, and I will be simply wretched for having disappointed you. Then you will be disappointed in your own disappointment, as if the fact that it will matter more than it seems it should will make me matter less. Then anything we might have been will be reduced, at best, to a hopeless cycle of longsuffering guilt and unvoiced resentment. I don't want that. I think we're better than that. I think — I hope you agree — that we owe it to ourselves to at least give it a shot, to try to let ourselves be better than that.

I really like you a lot. If I have not read you totally wrong and you like me back, as I hope that you do, I am writing this letter to ask you to consider going perfect-world middle-school steady with me (for a list of entailed components, refer to my earlier description about the popcorn). I want you to know up front that I have no plans to marry or reproduce, that I do not respect or even acknowledge many such societal rituals and institutions, that I am wildly difficult and untameable and take pride in being so, that I am and always will be a hell of a lot of trouble, and that I will always challenge you on everything just for the sheer exhilaration and glory of the unknown. If you are ever going to run screaming for the hills, please do so now; if you wait too long, I just might be inclined to follow. I like you. I want to know you. I want to be with you. I think... I could love you. These are all the expectations I will hold or allow; if they are enough for you, please tell me, and I will promise to share my afternoons, metaphysical philosophy and sandwiches with you for as long as there are afternoons and sandwiches to share. If not, I will promise to think of you fondly and wish you all the luck and happiness in the world.

There, I've said it. Make of it what you will. In hindsight, I suppose "Please Check Yes Or No" would have been more concise.


Love,
Treerose