MTHRFCKR. / Comments

Maeeee.

Awesome.
I am damn glad it was damn good.
Sure, but I am don't know how to play?

Yo, bro.
You can read, so you know my name, bro.
Nice to meet you Mae, bro.
Thanks, bruh.

Not in pictures

Dear Conner,

I have an accent, you're not imagining anything. It's a bit muted, some words slip out sounding rather American, I've been here for like six years, but it's definitely noticeable.

I've been thinking, I'm not a huge fan of this site anymore, would you mind continuing on e-mail?
Mine is conner.t.wiltshire@gmail.com
I check it several times a day, I get it on my phone, and this site has kind of burned out for us, don't you think?

Love,
Mae.

Dear Conner,

I love you too, Mae.
And I miss you. I miss us. And I really hope that you get through this summer undamaged, because it sucks knowing that you're suffering, and that there's nothing that I can do for you. Too far away, Mae, you're always too far away.

Love,
Mae.

Dear Conner,

I like hearing you, too. I like the way you always make even the most terrible situation sound lovely. And I don't mean that you make the situation enviable, but that the words you choose always flow, and your eloquence makes this juxtaposition of your phrasing and what you're speaking of.

I'm sorry that shit hit the fan. I'm sorry that your friends are flakes/assholes/druggies/abusive twats. If it makes you feel any better, I could tell them to fuck off in french. People suck. That should be the first thing anyone ever learns, each delivery room should have a huge mural stating it across from the bed, each kindergarten classroom should begin the day saying those two words. People need to learn it, because goddamn it if it isn't one of the only true things that we absolutely know for sure.

I can't tell you what to do, I can't even attempt to offer help or advice, because I'm so hopelessly clueless. But I can tell you that I understand, because I do. I got kicked out shortly before or after my sixteenth birthday, and I had nothing to my name until my eighteenth. And I'm not trying to throw myself a pity party, I'm not trying to get you to feel sorry for me. I just want you to know that I've been through shit too, and I'm not just another hipster trying to look like a tortured soul; you can air your grievances, you can let me know everything you want to get out, and I'll never mind. You could never bother me with your problems, I guess is what I'm saying. I'll try to help you all that I can, but I don't know what I can do. I want you to know that I care, and that I'm listening. That sounds incredibly stupid and sappy. But some sentiments are just stupid and sappy, and je m'en fous if I look that way.

I love you, Mae.

Love,
Mae.

Dear Conner,

It's fine, I don't need help, or anyone to tell me what to feel or that I'll recover. I just needed to tell someone. Because I know it sounds stupid. It's a note. It's just a note, or a call, or a word of acknowledgement. But it didn't happen, and it always happens, and it's weird. It doesn't hurt, it doesn't really bother me. It just marks a change in our relationship for the first time in years. And I just needed to tell someone. I needed someone to hear me.

Thanks for always being that someone, Mae. How are you?

Love,
Mae.

Dear Conner,

I woke up late this morning, and it felt normal. You know the feeling, something happened the night before, but you don't remember what, and you're too tired to shake it out of your memory, you know it probably doesn't matter. It took me three cups of coffee to remember that last night Riley had come over and we'd gotten a bit drunk, and one thing led to another. And she wasn't here this morning. And it's not like it wasn't unexpected eventually, I know that until I make the decision to completely cut her out of my life for a while, we'll keep on falling into this, but the thing was, she didn't wait up. She wasn't against my chest when I opened my eyes, her head wasn't on my pillow. She wasn't waiting on my couch reading the paper, she wasn't around the corner watching tv with my brother, her car wasn't in my driveway anymore. I checked, I checked where she always is before I remembered that she had class this morning and it felt alright until I couldn't find a note.
She's never left without saying goodbye after we do this, whether it be spoken word or pen on paper, even a pot of coffee or something spelled out in magnets on the fridge.
And it sort of feels like an acknowledgement that it was our first one night stand. No confessions of love, no discussion, no awkward smile the next day when I show up on her doorstep.
I know it sounds like I'm reading into nothing, but it's one of our little things. It's something that's always happened, something that I know she did intentionally, something to make a point. And it sucks.

Love,
Mae.

Dear Conner,

I screwed up last night.

Love,
Mae.

Dear Conner,

The thing is, I'm not sure what I have. I feel divided, two opposing forces blurring together in some disproportionate blonde whirl of chaos, confusion, and every other synonym for the two.

Love,
Mae.

Dear Conner,

The other night was so beautiful, aside from feeling like a shell of myself.
I thought I saw a shooting star, but I didn't know if it was just the acid kicking in.
So I made a wish just in case.

Maybe you should just let go every once in a while. When I really don't know who I am, I jump in the pool. I've told you that before. I just jump in, sometimes I strip down to my boxers, but sometimes, when I'm lost, I have no grip on reality whatsoever, my mind is somewhere else, I just get in as fast as I can. I have to be there to clear my mind. I have to know that I can't exist everywhere. I can't be anything. It's this intense calm that comes from knowing that I'm not invincible. The thirty seconds or so that I can spend at the bottom of the water, legs crossed, steady stream of air flowing out, like all of my stresses wasting away, it's the only thing that keeps me down to earth.

Oh, Mae, it's storming out my window. It's really just beginning, the trees are starting to sway, the rain falling at little more than a drop on my window. This is my favourite thing.

Love,
Mae.

Dear Conner,

I feel like my struggle is less about what I believe, because I'm firm on my views on right and wrong, I know who I'll vote for in 2012, I know what is good in this world and what I should steer away from. I know exactly what I think, I just don't know anything about the person who's thinking. I don't know what I like anymore, I don't remember what I like to do. I saw myself the night before last, somewhere unknown, with a group of people I'd only met the hour before. TJ and I had separated a few hours back as we usually do on those adventures. We start off the night together doing something juvenile and safe, a simple token of appreciation for our youth. That night we ate cake in bizarre places. On roofs in suburban developments, under a bridge in the middle of downtown, in the middle of a busy street, just doing something other people can't say they've done. Then we part ways, and we don't see each other again until the morning after, stumbling to our door step simultaneously, exhausted, painted, beat up, insert adjective here. I met the people at my favourite part of town, we smoked a bowl, left off to some sort of freedom. They didn't know my name, they didn't know who I was or where I was from, I was just another face on their adventure. And we were somewhere else, someone's apartment, someone's party, and everything was loud, everything around me moving so quickly, and I saw the one person standing still, staring back at me from the mirror. I didn't know who he was at all. He didn't have a name, he didn't have a history, he was just a blond-haired, blue-eyed kid in jeans and a button-up, a body with nothing behind his eyes but exhaustion. I feel like he and I are two different people, and I'm the demon inside him. Some sort of parasite, the devil on his shoulder, urging him to do something wrong, something to make him feel alive. And the man in the mirror cracked a smile as I realised that I'm the one in control. He has a future ahead of him, but I'm the leader for the rest of our youth. This is my story, and I'm going to make it count.

Love,
Mae.

Dear Conner,

That's interesting, because sometimes I feel that way to myself. I'm struggling with who I really am lately. I only know a few things, only a handful of facts and beliefs about my being.
It's interesting that we can be and still not know what we're being.
But I want you to know that, in an odd way, I think that you've helped me figure some things out about myself. I feel free to tell you anything, like you're my own personal therapy, My words are never as eloquent as yours, and sometimes I'm embarrassed to sound like such a fool, but that never keeps me from writing everything that I want you to know. And through that, I've figured a few things out about Conner. Not much, but more than I've ever known in the past. And I want to thank you for that.

In response to what you've said, I don't think that we'll ever drift apart. Our correspondence may fade, it may disappear completely for years and years, maybe we'll never speak again. But if we do, I don't think that we'll have to resort to the small talk that I share with people that I used to be close to and haven't seen in a while. I don't think that you and I will ever have a falling out, this relationship, no matter how sparse it gets, no matter if it does appear to become extinct, will never be gone. This core that we've created, this universe that's pushing us together, it's going to stick with us. And who knows, maybe someday, years from now, when this you and I has been reduced to only faded memories at the overheard mention of the month of May, it's going to push us together again. I feel like we're making all of this sound like goodbye when neither of us is leaving. I just want you to know that you'll always be a part of me.

Love,
Mae.

Dear Conner,

I think it's interesting, you know. Us. Our friendship. This beautiful, bizarre love. Because you and I are such shattered souls, we've both got demons that we'll never release, we both know that we can never truly be healed. Nothing ever really works out for me, my past has scarred my future, frightened all of the best things away, and I guess that it's the same for you. I feel like maybe we should repel, like all of our bad should collide in some catastrophic revulsion of the universe. Yet, somehow, when we're put together, when we speak, my words so carefully, yours so beautifully chosen, we work. Maybe I'm just a rusty machine, left abandoned for years, and you're the frayed cord that someone plugs in, the one that plugs away, pushing the energy flow through our minds, whirring to life, forgotten lights flickering as the dust is blown off. The two of us, with all of our past, all of this shit that we've left in our dust, the damage, our broken souls, it makes us Mae and Conner, in the perfect union. And I really love that about us.

Love,
Mae.

Dear Conner,

I've been thinking about you lately. These past few days I've really missed our conversations. You mean a lot to me, you know.

Love,
Mae.

Dear Conner,

I'm waiting for your story. Sorry I've been off for a few days, I've been busy.
Insurance is a bitch.
Also a bitch, free HBO subscriptions that only last for a weekend.
Fucking free trials. I wanted to watch Scooby Doo.

Love,
Mae.

P.S.
Lol at your journal comment.
I actually chuckled.
Like
I laughed to myself like an idiot reading it and imaging yelling PAUSE at some chick and switching the sock from one foot to another.

Dear Conner,

I miss you, Mae. I've been thinking about you. I've been driving a lot these past three days on my own, and my mind always wanders while I'm on the road, and you wandered in.

The weirdest thing happened two nights in a row, though. I was on cruise control, and I slowed down for some reason. I was the only person on the road, and it was in the middle of nowhere on the interstate. I flicked the thing to make it go back, and it started speeding up on its own. It was normal. I've done it a thousand times before. But it was pitch black aside from my headlights, and as I was speeding up I started going down a hill and around a corner, and suddenly I felt weightless. I felt nonexistent. I felt like reality had just disappeared, like I was the only thing in the universe. For about 7 seconds, I wasn't anything. The second time, I think I did it on purpose. It was something like a drug, but almost better. Because I wasn't high. I just was. Or wasn't. Or something. Last night I sort of fucked up, though. Because after I let myself forget everything, I came spinning back to reality. I realised that I was off the road. And I sort of crashed. Well, I did crash. But it wasn't terrible. I'm a little knocked up, but nothing's broken. Except my car. Poor thing didn't make it too well. I guess that's the danger in letting go of consciousness while you're operating a slab of metal at 80 mph. Whatever, though. If you're not going to take risks, what's the point of being?

Have fun at the rave. Tell me your beautiful story.

Love,
Mae.

Dear Conner,

I wonder why you keep on going back to him. Maybe you should take a break from spending time together. I could be wrong. I'm usually wrong.

I'm starting to like the fuzz. It's become this odd sort of drone, this sort of cloud in my mind.

But the good side of this week is that it's storm season here. It's back. It's the thunder and the lightning and the earth shaking. The kind of storms that you can watch from a balcony and finally become a part of something real. It's been happening every night for the past few days. Sugarbear, who spends most of his time in the kitchen, jonesing for a steak, clacks up the stairs, letting me know the rain is coming. And the second he drops himself down at my feet, hyperventilating at the stress, I hear the first roll of thunder, right on cue. And then the rain really starts to fall. It starts to barrel down, the thunder crashes, the lightning flames up the sky. Storms are beautiful to me. I don't know why. But they're beautiful, and they're real, and they make me feel alright.

Love,
Mae