Letter #7

Dear Teenage Girls,

If I die tonight, I want to tell you a recent experience of mine. One that I hope will mean something to you, one that might change the ways you look at some things, and judge others.

Earlier this week, my school's reputation was tarnished by a nudes scandal. Yes, that's right, freshman and sophomore boys had created a group chat full of all the nude pictures sent to them by girls over the years. Phones were confiscated, the accused were interrogated, the guilty were suspended. Some are even having trials to put them on the sex-offender's list for child pornography. Can you imagine being fifteen and already having that on your record? Anyway, in the wake of this scandal, many seats were left empty in classrooms and students wondered who was going to be gone next. I didn't have any relation to the misconduct nor did any of my friends, so I hadn't really thought about it unless it was mentioned in passing during class. Wednesday just happened to be the day I woke up late, threw on a 2XL sweatshirt and left for school, makeup-less and half awake. It just so happened that this was the height of the story. The news had made it's way all around school and everyone was on the lookout for missing classmates. I was walking to my last class, pulling my sleeves over my hands, arms crossed, when all of a sudden, I was hit with embarrassment like a ton of bricks. I was suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling of everyone's eyes on me. I became obsessed with the idea that they thought I was one of the picture senders. That I was ashamed and trying to hide my body even thought it really was just a matter of how lazy I felt that morning.

I never really realized the impact my clothes had on my self confidence until that day. It's so weird that something as cozy and comfortable as a sweatshirt can make me want to scream IT WASN'T ME. It's funny that we read so much into outfit choices even if the reason for their selection was purely out of how much sleep you got the previous night, or how cold it was outside. I guess I'm just trying to say that whatever you wear, own it, because everyone is going to have a different interpretation, but you will always be the only one who knows the real reason (or lack there of) for wearing it.

Love,
A Still-Sweatshirt-Wearing Girl

Letter #6

Dear Dad,

If I die tonight, it was probably due to Carrie's driving - that girl could run on a tightrope with a baby on her back and still feel safe. Anyway, I haven't written to you yet because I didn't think that I'd be able to fit everything I need to say into one, hurriedly typed letter, so I'm not. Welcome to the first installment of my letters to you.

You are the first man I ever loved and who ever loved me, and I don't think that any other man will be able to love me quite as much as you do. As cheesy as I feel writing that, I guess one becomes disgustingly honest when on their death bed, so bear with me. I love that with everything I do, you match - if not exceed - my excitement.  Every sport from soccer to pole vaulting, every injury from ankle to wrist, you are there, walking the path with me. Over the years, you have perfected your YouTube researching skills, become a self-proclaimed physical therapist, and learned the ins and outs of all of my fleeting interests all in my name.

It's amazing to think of how lucky I got to be your daughter. Of all the girls in the world, I get to be the daughter of a man who finds a way to make squirrels ride bikes and sit on swings. I get to be the brain you bounce your movie ideas off of, or share in deep philosophical thoughts, or thoughts that go nowhere but outside the box and never make it to a conclusive idea. No matter what, our conversations are never boring or dull, and I have you to thank for humoring my crazy side.

            Love,
                  Your Daughter

Letter #5

Dear Person Who Picked This Wad Of Paper Off The Street,

I'm sorry for troubling you, but I just wanted somebody to know that tomorrow is my birthday. Not that I could celebrate given the whole "I'm dead" thing, but its just nice to know that at least one person will know about it. Frankly, I don't even think my friends of three years know. So, I am ordering you from the great beyond to go get yourself a piece of cake in my honor.

Anyway, I wrote this to let off a secret that I feel so guilty for having: birthdays make me want to cry. Not because I'm so happy, but because I know that no matter how hard I try, it's just a regular day for everybody else. I also know that the actual day will never live up to my standards. And then, because I have been cursed with the gift of feeling emense guilt at even the smallest of issues, I hate myself just a little for not being as grateful as I should be. Which, subsequently, is why my friends don't know its my birthday. I don't tell people until day of because I don't want to build it up. I always feel like its a burden for people to act happy for my birthday; a burden I don't want to be the cause of.

This is also why I try to make everyone else's birthday's feel special, so they know that it's not just a regular day for everyone else.

          Love,
                  A Birthdayless Stranger

Letter #4

Dear Mason,

In the event of my untimely death tonight, I would like you to know that if you have a crush on someone (i.e ME) it is not appropriate to stare while the object of your affection is working out in gym class, especially if you're not even trying to hide it. Yes, that is correct, I can most definitely see you staring at me and my chest while I attempt to ignore you. Side note: I expect for you to be able to keep your eyes on mine and not my breasts when we have a five-second conversation. It's a life skill.

In response to your question "Do you wanna fight?" that you never fail to ask Every. Single. Day. The answer that I hope will finally stick in your head, NO. I don't want to fight you, I don't want you to mess with my work-out routine, and I am positive that I do not want you to pull a Ron Burgandy: sit five feet from me doing bicep curls and staring at me waiting for me to notice. I'm not quite sure what signals you think I'm sending out to you, but your partner is right in that the way to get me to talk to you is definitely NOT by stealing my stuff!

Since these are my final words to you, I would like to point out that you are not completely all bad. While the short conversations we had mostly consisted of you talking about your swimming, I must admit that you're persistent and can hold a conversation. So, as a tip, the next time you are infatuated with a young woman, maybe think about toning it down.

                     Love,
                           Your (Not-So) Friend

Letter #3

Dear Mr. Wheeler,

If I die tonight, consider yourself lucky. I have a lot that's been going on, and many more letters to send, but you have somehow landed your English-teacher self at the top of the list tonight. I'm not quite sure if it brings you joy to incorrectly and unfairly grade my papers, or you really think you're doing right by it, but I would like you to stop. If you are to put anything in my grave (assuming that you are coming to my funeral, unless my parents lock you out) I would deeply appreciate the last paper I turned in to be full credit and a simple "I agree, good job" written in your red penmanship.

Although you have a fabulous personality and a great habit of writing terrible puns, the fact that I have only been able to raise my grade one percentage point in the span of two quarters may or may not say something about your grading system.

As my dying wish, I want you to take terrible consideration into your teaching methods and not just repeat the same useless information.

          Love,
                 Your (Frustrated) Student

P.S if you cut me off one more time while I am trying to explain my position, I will come back and haunt you and steal all of your pens.

Letter #2

Dear Carrie,

If I die right now, struck down at this computer accompanied by wilting flowers from your birthday, I want you to see this poem. I want you to really read it and learn from it. I know you're at college, but a two-hour distance isn't the reason we don't talk. I don't know if you'll actually care about any of this, but as my dying words to you, it might be worth to read on the ride to my funeral.

I waited four years for her to add me on Snapchat.

I'm still waiting for Twitter and Instagram to follow. 

I feel like the epitome of everyone's fear of technology

no face-to-face contact.

Trust me, this was not by choice.

I waited four years for her to add me on Snapchat

because she wouldn't talk to me in person.

We lived in the same house, played the same games.

We were inseparable for twelve years of my life

then she decided

to live the next five years by herself.

We still lived in the same house,

but I had to pick up where she left off.

Now I have to play basketball by myself. 

Around The World just isn't as fun with one person.

Now I can see her life through ten-second videos

I pretend have been sent just to me 

because knowing that she's lumping

our twelve years together

in with everyone else

sucks.

            Love,

                   Your Little Sister

Letter #1

Dear mom

If, by unfortunate circumstances, I die tonight, I'm sorry for the mess I left on the table. If my life ends in this bed, I will have left crumbs and dishes and art and school supplies out, I would have hopefully cleaned in the morning. I'm sorry for making you clean up my mess. Which brings me to my room. Please, if you want to keep my name good and holy, do not go into my room! If you were annoyed by the kitchen, you might faint at my door frame; if not for my dead body in the bed, then for the piles of clean clothes spilling out of my drawers and strategically strewn on the floor, mere inches separating the dirty from pure, so only I can know what's safe to wear. You'll probably wash it all anyways. I'm sorry. There's a sad bed sheet crammed into the space between the bed and the wall that I gave up trying to fit over my mattress. And I might also have hairballs from my brush giving my floor a new hairstyle. I'm sorry. How selfish I feel to be leaving you with the remains of frustrated sheets and tampon wrappers. I wouldn't blame you for burning the room down just so you wouldn't have to deal with any of it. But mostly, if I die tonight, I want you to know you were an awesome mother today; a force to be reckoned with.

      Love,
                Your daughter