Return to sender.
This correspondence comes with your, or our, best interests in mind. I miss your contribution to my sense of self. I miss you. Do you miss me? Here goes:
You’re too aware of judgment. I know you’re critical, but stop fabricating the thoughts of others. Look at me, all I consider is appetite and excretion impulses. This is automated bliss. Become a robot already. Efficiency is intelligent laziness. But no. You make it hard on yourself. And I suffer.
Pretending to have every excuse in the world, you pigeonhole yourself and then assume others follow suit. Don’t. You’re not sleeping well; walking around, eyes everywhere, looking for yourself. At least you’ve moved beyond the mirror, or have you?
I question the valor of your goals. What are they again? Oh yes: ‘love and happiness.’ Grow up, buttercup. Even utilitarians realize that everyone is not entitled to happiness. In fact, some people are best left unhappy, so long as they don’t lash out against the happy ones.
Love though, love. You make me laugh, Sylvia Plath. [Side note: female poets are considered the most susceptible group to insanity. This is hardly scientific data. But, for example, Emily Dickinson is a joke]. Love?- Not many can conquer that beast. You look at it as a personality quest. Nothing about a ‘better half.’ Talk to Carol Anne Duffy and Jackie Kay, they seem to handle love okay. No, you think love is death to a depth of personalities. Love, for you, is nothing more than finding the mirror which offers the handsomest reflection; the remaining reflections are cast away indefinitely. Or until divorce.
Keep up the good work, you conceited asshole.