The Love Letters of Yore

Since arriving in New York for grad school it's been my goal to "adultify" my tres 'child chic' bedroom. I'm talking pink blinds and purple walls, high school pictures in sparkly "PARTY GIRL!" frames, stuffed animals aplenty...yet this task often gets sidetracked by my plethora of amazing discoveries. I thought I'd share one with you today.
Background: In 8th grade I was hardcore in love with Mike B. Loved his gelled-down man bangs, his Abercrombie Woods scent, how good he looked in sweaters. He did not return this love. It's not that he was evil or unfeeling, more that I had eyebrows befitting an old hairy man, colorful braces, skin so oily you could probably see yourself in it, oh and let's not forget my twitch (every 4.5 seconds I rolled my eyes and flared my nostrils. This is all brilliantly documented in my Bat Mitzvah video, which we just put on DVD but I'm afraid to watch it because I don't want to actually view the evidence of my failure as an attractive person. An optic neurologist later diagnosed me with an astigmatism, but it took a series of self-pep talks- "Girl, you BETTER stop looking like a freak in public"- to truly cure me. I still do the eye rolls a lot though. But don't think it's just my astigmatism. ALWAYS assume I am bored by you. Consider it a growth experience).
Well, it turns out that he later proved himself as unfeeling during his last-day-of-8th-grade confessional where he said he'd rather have Fiori live in his basement for a year than kiss me (whaaa??), and I found out and was so distraught I flashed Mike O. and James Scott because I felt wild and out of control and urgently needed to show my boobs. Anyway anyway anyway. On a cold winter's afternoon, in a moment of 8th-grade artistic glory, I wrote him the love letter to end all love letters. Note my glorious 13-year-old emotions and, not to toot my own horn here, but very good writing for a middle schooler! Oh, and let it be said that my life is better for not having given this to him. Chances are I would have had to transfer. (My current notes to the letter are italicized, all other parentheses or underlines are true representations of the writing.)

Dear Mike,

Please don't tell anyone I gave this to you. It would really mean a lot to me if you kept this private (asking a middle school boy to keep a love letter private is basically like asking your friendly household turtle to do a standing back tuck. Not going to happen). Well, the point of this is to express my feelings towards you, which I have a feeling you know. I've liked you since the summer, but kept it quiet until September (a whole month!!)- very hard to do- when it became obvious to my friends that I liked you.
Personally, I think it's fine to hang out with different people. And I know you may think we're overreacting, but you and your friends DO ignore us and leave us out. Especially me. Sometimes (maybe it's just my imagination...) it seems like you pay attention to every girl except me. I can't help being a jealous and obsessed freak. I love you so much that sometimes I want to cry, and do. It is incredible pain to adore someone so much and know that they don't feel the same way about you. Maybe you have experienced this before and can be sympathetic (doubtful, Allie, since your emotions came from General Hospital while everyone else was clearly stuck in Nick Jr.).
Sometimes it feels like nobody sees the real me and that I'm a doormat to everybody. But truthfully, I'm a compassionate, loving, caring friend, and a funny person (and humble to boot!). I know I might not be the prettiest face in the crowd, but to love someone I believe you have to look to the inside. That is what I have done with you. (And the award for most backward compliment goes to...)
I might seem a little weird at times, because I'm around you. I blush, stammer, talk too loudly, say stupid things (note: WHAT HAS CHANGED SINCE THEN??). But it's all to impress you. God, Mike, everything is for you.
(Then I signed "Allison" in cursive. The entire letter was printed in red Crayola marker. Oh old-school me)