March 17, 2002
Letters I Write
At four o'clock in the morning, all alone in the Portugal room with only a pink gel pen and her sadness for company, Jill writes:
What is wrong with me? With Jillian? With small breasts? With random dancing and squash faced smiles? With curly hair and frequent silences and bell bottoms and articulation and lyric eyes and thrift shirts and gym shoes and five foot three and a hundred and twenty five pounds and a varied pitch voice and severity and childishness and daydreaming?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Maybe one day I'll be beautiful enough and talented enough and intelligent enough and giving enough. Which is really just a nice way of saying plastic bodied enough and fake enough and stupid enough and subservient enough.
Only now am I beginning to realize how inadequate my relationship with Ryan really was. Only now am I finally sure all of those feelings are gone.
Never again. It'll never happen again, let alone to a legitimate degree.
What the hell did he want with me anyway? He loved me. Sure he did. But what did he love? Certainly not the real me, those were the parts of me he so conveniently ignored or feigned interest in.
I suck. I was born with a battle inside of me.
One day I'll kill the desperate girl, and I can just be Jill who writes songs in her pajamas and likes to watch movies and laugh.
Laughing most of all.
Excuse me while I cry.
astera at ten hours