sonofapunk

You've fucked me over. Thank you.

My life is really confusing right now, and for that, I really thank you.

You don't even know this page exists. You don't know I have a blog on SuicideGirls. And this is my letter to you.

I'm really happy that I'm confused. I don't know what I should do, what I should say. It's exhilarating. I'm having my first gasp of air in seven months. I don't even know what the fuck I'm writing.

I know I'm going to talk lots. But what's more, is I'm not going to say a goddamn thing. You do that to me. Again, thank you.

You're too good to be real. I barely fucking know you and I already put my scarred hear in your palms. I know it sounds like something I shouldn't be doing. But I was thinking about it. And after much deep contemplation, why the fuck not? Why shouldn't I? You're a good person. I'm happy I've found you. Whether you turn out to be a casual acquaintance, or the mother of the children I-always-said-I-never-wanted-until-I-was-ready-but-I-realized-that-accidents-happen-and-that's-the-only-way-anyone-is-even-born-anyhow: I am thankful you're in my life.

You're not real. You fucking can't be. I'm a fucking character in a Palanhiuck novel. I just fucking know it. You are part of me that I created out of frustration with being "lonely". You're everything I'm not, but at the same time, we're the same fucking person. I wonder if I have to fail suicide in order to get rid of you. Just like Jack. Don't worry though. You fill me with life. I'm not gonna pull any triggers. Ever.

What I will do, and I know will be damn-fucking-soon: Is drop bombs on you.

That's your warning.

Christoph is at war with _________, and this is your notice of engagement. We are in battle now. And although no triggers will be pulled, I'm going to drop the F-Bomb and the L-Bomb in the same fucking sentence... Reeeeeeeal soon.

Trust me. It's going to happen.

I'd write you some poetry, but I really got nothing smart to say around you. I can't over-do anything. I can't candycoat anything I say to you. You bring out the true essence of my being. My mind is in my mouth when I talk to you. And when the words come out, sometimes I go "Oh shit! Maybe that was too harsh. Or maybe I phrased it wrong." But time and time again you tell me that it's good, and no matter what I say - no matter how stupid or blunt - you always thank me for being me.

I haven't felt this good to simply be me in forever.

I can't be creative around you. I'm all fucking jumbled. It's a fucking nightmare to get anything out there that is remotely rad when I'm around you. I want to write music about it. But there's really nothing more to say than what you've done to me. Which is this letter.

That you won't see.

Just putting it out there. Into existence. Where I write most of the crap that's happened to me. But this ain't crap. Trust me. It's fucking Heaven.

You make dub music better.

You don't know how much of a big fucking deal that is to me.

You really have no idea. It's fucking epic in my books.

Seriously.

You don't even like it that much, as far as I know.

"I like your music. It's relaxing. I can let all my worries in the world die forever when I'm with you. The lighting. The smells. The music. This couch. Most of all, you."

I fucking ____ you.

Not yet.

Not coming out yet.

Soon...

I promise...

I always pictured the "perfect girl for me" as a chick with the exact same tastes in everything, dressed the same way, same caliber of tattoos, same outlooks on life... She'd have to have gone through hell like me. She'd have a mohawk (at one point anyhow), but she'd be really girly. She'd love ska, punk, metal, reggae, dub, and a bunch of wierd shit that nobody else has ever heard of but us. She'd like to mosh, she'd like to skank, she'd like to dance, she'd participate in the odd Wall-Of-Death. But she would exercise moderation, and be in the same mood I am at all times. She'd probably be bisexual. And probably have a lot of hot friends... Haha! She'd be hang-up free. Open minded. Free of Prejudice. Hate Haters and never say hate other than that. Never say never... She'd love to allow me to please her and return the favor...

Basically, me.

As much as it'd be rad to have a female twin. I'd much rather have you.

You're different from me.

That might be perfect for me. Or not. Who cares.

All I know is how you make me feel.

And we'll uncover what we share and what we differ on. And from there we will make it rad and have fun with it until then.

You know...

You said you knew me in highschool. I never even recall your name, your face, nothin'. That happens a lot. I'm a hard person to ignore. I'm big and loud and out there. I'm sorry. But not. Because my first impression of you (due to both of us and where we were back then) would be different. And I'd have it no other way.

You know what my first impression of you is?

"That right there, is the hottest fucking chick in this whole houseparty."

Sounds shallow, I know. But with my personal taste in women usually comes some interesting personality. Nobody has that much tattoos and had nothing to say. Nobody dresses like that and is boring. It's just the taste I was blessed with. By "hot" I mean I'm attracted to you. Not just in a "physical" manner. But because you look like you're fun. Sounds like a generalization, but it's yet to fail me.

And even then, you were still the hottest fucking chick in the whole houseparty. Hahaha!

Anyhow... I tried talking to you a whole bunch that night. But I was pretty much braindead from looking at you. My tongue went limp, other things went not-so-limp. I opened my mouth, and pretended that the embarassing shit I tried to say to you was random, publically-addressed drunken banter. You did that to me. Good job.

I wanted to move on in, and tell you that I thought you were pretty. But you were with a guy who'd answer all the questions I asked for you. I assumed he was Mr. Overprotective McBoyfriend. So out of respect, I did nothing...

...For a while that is. And even then. I only wanted to get to know you. So I wasn't going to ask for a date. I just needed a way to talk to you.

So I put on a humorous front. I pretended I was just being random and funny, but really the following was all... how do you say... pre-meditated malice-forethought:

I grabbed a Gnome from the garden. Made a couple of my friends sign their e-mail addresses on it so it looked ligit. Brought it to the area you were in, and screamed "Sign the Gnome if you want pictures of tonight's antics and adventures!"

And it fucking worked. You signed it. Unfortunately, screaming shit like that at a huge party got a bunch of really redundant e-mail-signatures on it that I had no use for. I guarded that gnome with my fucking life on the wobbly-walk (three blocks away from) home. Someone actually said "Let's smash it!" and I told 'em to fuck off in a pretty harsh manner. Haha!

I got you now. I got you where I want you. You're fucking mine...

For the next three weeks I got a lot of:

"Hey! You're _______ (Insert Christoph, Stoph, Chris, Slut here), right?"
"How's it going? I'm _____!"
"I'm sorry, who?"
"_____, from Willie's party!"
"Oh, hey! Sorry. I'm terrible. I don't remember you..."
"It's okay. But hey, why haven't you sent me those pictures yet? Add me to your MSN. I wanna talk some more! That gnome-thing was awesome! Add me!"
"Sure!"

Aaaaaaaaand I never did. Except for you.



You make me feel wanted. You make me feel appreciated. You make me feel awesome when I'm already thinkin' I can't feel any better.

You don't even have to do anything, you just make things better.

And no matter what happens, thank you.

For the nothing you never had to do.

You're too fucking rad...

I'm fucking keeping you.

You're gonna get so fucking smothered that you're going to rue the day that you ever dished out your e-mail address so fucking easily.

There's lots more I want to say. But I'm retarded again 'cause I'm thinking of you too much.

It's just what you do to me...

- Christoph