In a Hurry

Dear Jane,

You must forgive my hurried writing as I compose this message; it has been a while since you last wrote yesterday, and I have not yet found the time to write a detailed reply to your question: "When are we going 2 the movies?" because as such, I am simply inundated with requests and calls from loved ones and friends and family to attend a variety of gatherings and events from parties to book-reading clubs to gardening socials where all the women wear gloves, dress in white and talk with a most educated accent, much like how you are imagining my voice as you read this letter in your hand, and to get back to the focal point of this message, you asked, "When are we going 2 the movies?", and in that simple question, (I do wonder where you found the time to misspell to as 2, it's quite obscene, really), you seemed to imply that, one, you are going to the movies, two, I am going to the movies, and three, we are going to the movies together, and while I certainly think very highly of you, as mother always agrees with me when I say that Young Jane definitely has a head on those shoulders, I, forgive me, do not recall an invitation to the movies with you, unless it was that dreadful pink envelope with the stains all around the flap and the beautiful typography announcing, Elliot Tan, genius of the modern world and person universally adored, though it could have been shorter - really my memory has been quite unforgiving these past days and there have been times where while talking on one subject segue onto another quite naturally and then after can never really remember what I had been talking about not quite five minutes earlier - but the point is, I threw away that letter after admiring my name, throwing it away because it was pink, because it was stained, but mainly because of the too many hearts adorning my name that made it look like it came from a princess castle filled with five year olds in fairy suits all smiling and giggling and pointing their little wands about as beaming mothers stand back and take photographs so that they too, can smile and giggle and point with their friends, who will go home to their loved ones and think 'if only I had a child as adorable as Mrs. So-and-so's' and frankly, I abhor the idea that I would enjoy receiving a gaudy purple puke-worthy envelope, and I refuse to be taken advantage of in that dreadful manner, as I once was when I was a little child, with my baby photos being displayed about in Places of Prominence, like the top of the cupboard or on the fridge where they would cover my painstakingly drawn stick figures of Mom, Dad, my brother, and I all holding hands in a pretty garden underneath a rainbow and blue skies, much like the rainbow that could be over my head and yours, and thus I say to you Jane, I really don't think it's going to work out between us, and perhaps we should be just friends, actually it might be better if you don't call again, or even message me, because my phone is just about out of space and I might have to do something drastic, like a large man saying no, I really couldn't have another one, and then taking the last doughnut off the plate, finishing it off, and suddenly violently vomiting all over the place, excreting the metaphorical doughnuts that are actually your seventy-two-hundred messages sent to me since that week where we met and talked and laughed together about that thing that isn't really as funny now as it was then, when we were young and carefree, and unburdened with the sorrow that is now creeping upon your flesh, thinking oh God, he really doesn't like me, he really doesn't, and the raging delight that controls every eager movement of my pen, and the truth is, Jane, yes, you did come on too strong, as one of my older friends said to his bottle of vodka, so, adieu, and in the future I wish you happiness and unicorns and daydreams of what could have been Something.

Elliot