Don’t read me!

You are the squiggles on my math homework where I fall asleep. You are the scratches on the wheels of the car I drive that isn’t even mine. You are the smudged sharpie lyrics on my desk, taken from songs I don’t even listen to anymore. You are the pair of headphones I used for years before one side broke (I still use them). You’re the guitar pick necklace I used to wear; that one I looked at a couple weeks ago and realized was never cool. You’re the free Wii remote jackets that Nintendo shipped me for free, I never ended up using them. In fact, they sent me four. I only have one remote. Take that, Nintendo.

And if you’re reading this with any preconceived notion that it’s at all about you, forget it. It’s not. I’m sarcastic, but this is serious.

Speaking of; you are the flames in the Gryffindor common room after Sirius’ head disappears. You’re Kreacher, before he found Mundungus. You’re Big Thunder Mountain in Magic Kingdom. I’m sure a lot of people like you, but I’m not a fan. You’re my dream girl. Because I’m writing to you, and I don’t even know who you are. You’re a mobius strip; ambiguous, something I don’t nor ever will understand. You are the red squiggles whenever I maek a typo. Make. You’re the illegible red markings on the English essays I never bothered to proofread. You’re the falsetto I don’t have when I need it. You’re the guitar string I break once in a blue moon.

And if you’ve thought at any point during this post that it’s at all about you, you’re wrong. It’s not.

I don’t know who it’s about. You may not even exist. You are Pluto after those scientist idiots decided to kick you out of orbit. Figuratively, of course. You still rotate and all that jazz. You’re the squeaky brake on my bike. You’re the day my training wheels decided to run away. Just kidding, I took them off. You’re the wallet that holds my coins in a little pocket without a zipper so they all fall out and all over the floor so I need to kneel down awkwardly as I pick them up and hastily explain to the person behind me that I’m sorry and sheepishly grin to the cashier who’s only received half of the payment she needs to create me the greatest mocha-infused chocolate-syrup-drizzled drink of the day. It’s all your fault.

I’m blaming everything on you, and you don’t even exist.

You are the free mp3 downloads I got when I bought my iPod. In fact, you’re the Apple stickers, too. Never mind, those are freaking awesome. You’re me when I play League of Legends and I start cussing and yelling because I am terribly terrible at clicking strategically with a little Bluetooth mouse on a little girl with a pet bear and an annoying voice. You are the solo I’ve never played and the band I never played with. You are the harmony to an array of horribly dissonant notes I never intended to play. But I did anyways, because I thought they would sound exotic.

I was wrong, and it’s all your fault.

You’re the straightener my mom bought me that worked great for all of two months and proceeded to descend into straightener hell. Or purgatory. The point is, you’re like the dull end of an HB pencil. I wish I knew what an HB pencil was. You’re the glue gun I forgot to put the cap back on; so when I used it the next time I got a great big surprise when my pens seem to have a sticky affinity towards my erasers. They don’t even go together. That’s you. You’re the origami samurai hat on my desk lamp. I forgot about it. Oops.

I forgot about you, and you don’t even exist.

You’re the girls the girl I have a crush on tries to set me up with. I just don’t like you like that. You are the shade of purple that’s really awkward and pink and just not manly at all. You are the blinds that cut my fingers when I slide against them too quickly to open the window. You’re that song from 2007 that everyone still sings. And yes, it annoys the heck out of all of us. You’re the American dollars in my wallet. I’m Canadian. You’re the moose stereotype, and the beaver stereotype; you’re every stereotype except the maple syrup one because I don’t mind that. You’re the last pearl in my green apple bubble tea. I can’t get you and when I’ve given up hope, I throw you in the trash.

And you come back, over and over again.

You are a cycle. You are the oppressive sun and thoughtless moon. You’re that Tin Man from Wicked; all heartless and whatnot. In fact, you’re the Lion and the Scarecrow too. You’re the awkward tissue that’s been used once but not enough to justify discarding it. So you just kinda sit there. And you sit there like a park bench after it’s been raining for a long time and it’s all kind of icky and gross and just not the kind of place you want to sit in the rain. You’re that umbrella with that one arm that’s broken.

You’re too much.