It’s been said and done. Every beautiful thought’s been already sung. Every kind of longing has been written about. But, you know, love doesn’t really care about originality, and, to be honest, the feeling’s kinda trite. Banal. Plebeian. But I guess the funny thing is that no matter how common this feeling is, I’d shoot anybody who dares say what I feel for you isn’t special–because I’m goddamn sure that this is the most unique love as far as cliche love feelings go.
And I guess right now here’s another one of those commonplace, tedious pieces that fruitlessly try to capture the meaning of the ethereal. There’s really no point to it other than to tell you how I really feel and what I think about you, hoping that at least a line or two in this letter amuses or impresses you enough that you’ll take it seriously. But please feel free to crumple and throw it in the trash bin anytime you feel that it’s just boring you too much.
Enough of the disclaimer. I wrote to tell you that you’re all I’ve been thinking about these past few days. Creepy, right? It gets creepier. When I’m alone and the room’s a bit too silent, it’s your voice I hear. Your singing, in fact. You’re not even the best singer (heck you’re no singer at all, sorry) but there you go–your lovely voice in my head. And this song that I never used to like–one pop song by Justin Bieber’s chick–it got stuck in my head after you just blurted crooning it out one day. So what I did was I downloaded an MP3 of it and inserted it in my Top 500 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame album. And the creepiest thing is that after a while, I stopped listening to Jagger and Lennon and Elvis altogether. I hit repeat on Selena Gomez infinite number of times, so your melody will play on and on with the best of ’em.
Why? Because that’s your effect on me. I’m like a water-type Pokemon and you’re electric-type. Everything you do is super-effective on me and I’ll die in three moves. This letter is being written because I am me and you are you. You are THAT stranger in my life that just caused an uncontainable riot when you walked in the door. You are sweet. You are cool. You are intelligent. You are beautiful, like a dream come alive, incredible; a sinful miracle, lyrical. You’re special while I’m typical, so I’m simply bound to put you on a pedestal the moment I set my eyes on you.
But I wanna thank you for adding color to my otherwise dreary days. Remember that night when you touched my hand? I don’t even care why you did that. You’ve saved my life again even though you have no knowledge of what you did. And I’m left wondering what it would be like to have you as my girlfriend. What it would be like to call you “baby.” Can I call you baby? Just for this letter? Well, if you got through all the creepiness above and you’re still reading, I guess you’d let me. Don’t worry it’s almost over, baby, just a few more lines.
What I really want to say is that I treasure you like my ripped comicbook collection. Like my sweet memories of passing Math 11 in college. Like my Top 500 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame album–no, let me correct myself. Like that Selena Gomez song I’ve been listening to for the nth time. And I want you to know, baby.
I… I love you like a love song, baby. I really do. I’m hooked on you like I’m hooked on one of your pop songs. There’s no way to stop listening to it like there’s no way to stop imagining your smile in my mind. I’m a fan and I keep hitting re-peat-peat-peat-peat-peat-peat.
Wishing I were Bieber,
* This made-up letter was written because it’s true that I’ve been listening to this song for days and it’s been a long time since I wrote something mushy. Couldn’t contain all that mush in. Had to let it rip.