Wouldn’t you find it odd if someone were to paint something that large of your face? I can almost guarantee that I’m not the only one who would think that if they found something like that in the possession of someone she didn’t like very much.
                        I don’t doubt that you don’t understand the basic human emotions of love and compassion, but I do find it hard to believe that you don’t seek companionship. If I were to hazard a guess, aren’t you doing that very thing right now by writing to me? You say it’s to solve me, to unravel the mystery you seem to think I’m shrouded in, but I believe otherwise.
                        You grew bored of talking to Sherlock because he wasn’t able to stimulate you anymore. You’re too alike, and you need something to excite you.
                        It sounds almost exactly like a sort of break up you’d hear in high school. Girl becomes tired of boy, moves on to the next. It’s a formula I’ve seen too often and done myself in some cases. I’m aware you’ll try to deny it, shrug it off as wrong, but you won’t change my mind, in fact, I’m quite certain that’s what you’re looking for in me, you just don’t want to admit it.
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Note:Â This is basically bleh and full of feelings.
This is bad. I’m already running out of things to say to you and this is my fifth letter. I mean, sure, I have some things to say, but—not equally as much as the past letters I’ve written to you. Besides, it’s beginning to seem like I’m just bothering to tell you what’s going on with my life, and that’s not very exciting. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s pretty damn boring to you. Yet I care too much, so we’re going to do it anyway.
I went to see Dr. Dabbers again today. I told him how I’ve been writing letters—mainly to you, though. He knows what happened, and I still find it shocking he didn’t give me a lecture for what I did or some kind of look to prove he was disappointed in me. I don’t know how to work with this man, you know. He’s so—he’s nothing like I imagined a psychologist to be and it’s ridiculous. He’s ridiculous. If I don’t want to say anything, he asks if I want one of his mints or his lemon drops or whatever the hell he has that day. We don’t always meet on the same day—sometimes Wednesdays are Tuesdays or we suddenly meet on a Thursday. I don’t get his system. I don’t get him or how he works. Somehow he’s helping, but I don’t know. We’ll see next time whenever we talk again. He keeps suggesting for me to write more letters, except not just to you. Basically, he suggested that maybe I should talk to people or write those people letters if they’ve pissed me off somehow. Okay, he didn’t say if they pissed me off, just if they upset me—either way, same difference.
Judging from the few sessions he’s had and the journal entries he’s read and everything, he might know what’s wrong with me. He said today that he had this feeling I wasn’t just suffering from depression; that it’s something else. Like, it’s this bigger problem. Honestly, for a few seconds, I felt relieved. Then for the rest of the time—I didn’t know what to think. I tuned him out for a good minute thinking on what exactly he could find that’s wrong with me. I’m just so scared. Maybe it’s really nothing. Maybe he’s just playing with me. Who knows?
Since I went back to Encinitas, I was able to sneak into my dorm room without much of anyone noticing and grabbed my old violin to practice with, while staying with Miss Potts. I’m a little rusty, since we’re out of school and then there was our roadtrip and—yeah, you know. The bow needed a lot of rosin and the strings needed tuning, but I’m slowly getting back into it. It causes Peanut to scamper away for awhile, but whatever. The violin is like riding a bike for me. I’ve gotten into this almost as much as I did with ballet, almost for as long too. I’ll get the hang out of it in no time. Maybe I’ll get the hang of living my life without you too.
