My dearest Would be,
I am suffering a case of the winter blues.
The days are cold, the nights are long and I find myself in bed a lot, sleepy. All alone. Winter, my dear ‘Would be’ is made for sex. Lots and lots of sex. Where is my sex???
Now ‘would be’ I am going to blame You for much of my blues. You see I like to talk, I like to talk a lot. Living on my own now has made me get a little creative about how I full fill this need to share all my thoughts with someone, I talk to you. You the imaginary person in my head; nameless, bodiless, emotionless person in my head. Sure I could get a cat or a dog, or a bird or some other sort of living being to go crazy with, but I much prefer you. You I can put away when the mood suits, and you don’t require insane toilet walks at 4 am. And of course, you, magically reply. Your quite funny actually, witty, sarcastic within reason. You remind me of me. Many would see this as a sign of impending craziness……you, being the ‘would be’ that you are, are going to see it as a sign of genius.
But then come the hormonal days, when I know that your replies aren’t real. When my dark black curtains seems like a Rupunzel-esque holding cell. And you are no where in sight. You’re not in any of the men confessing their hidden attraction, you’re not in the Petrosky like fellow from work, your not in any of the somewhat good looking faces in the subway, your not in my past, and goodness knows I can’t see the damn future.
So where the Flip are you?
I am going to be 27 this year, and frankly I think its time you made an appearance.
Seriously… I’m starting to lose hope here.
There is only so long a girl can be optimistic for.
Hurry the F(^*^ Up.