Friday, 4 February 2011
08:38:57 PM (GMT)
I don't know how to address you, but I need to start this now:
Fuck you for making me what I am: The personification of the cliches that you have
gangbanged with your wish fulfillment and exotic desires.
Fuck you for making me beautiful, talented, and loved, and fuck you for blessing me
with abnormal skill along with the stinging envy of all you deem as the jealous
whores of your beloved franchise.
Thanks for goddamn nothing but having my childhood be nothing but endless variations
of ANGSTY! orphanhood, DRAMATIC! rape, and insincere heart tugging
stories that attempt to sloppily paint me as a tragic figure, free to have me act as
bitchy or badass or saintly as you will with abandon.
It's almost a blessing when you write me as amnesiac, because then I can claim to not
know perfectly well what I am up until the moment that you reveal that Severes Snape,
Darth Vader, or the Kyuubi was actually my father. So fuck it. Fuck that shit.
My rage is done. I'm not sorry, but please pardon my rampant cussing.
Before I can really tell you what's wrong, I had to let the bitterness drain out
I'll admit, that wasn't the best first impression. Having been under your control for
so long, I've had these bottled up feelings for a long while. It's really nice to
speak in plain, normal tones. No garbled typos or purple prose to sort through. You
should type like this more often.
Let's take a look at each other. Me first, though. It's because I'm special,
I want to be myself.
I don't want to bear your wishful perfections, though I know it's too late to do
anything about that at this point. I am a stereotype in and of myself, of every
gag-worthy incarnation that you could possible imagine.
I do not look human; merely humanoid in shape.
Where you call me goddess, I shake my head and whisper, "Abomination". To claim nymph
would be much closer, for I seem to be of an entirely different species altogether.
It's not so much as what I am made up of that repulses the senses, but the
descriptions that blanket me in bad comparisons.
When I see my reflection, it always faintly stuns me to watch my glassy orbs fade
through the rainbow's spectrum as they blankly stare right back at me.
(On alternate Saturdays, my eyes are 'albino red'. Albino... red...)
My sunkissed locks of raveny blue seems to drink in the rays of glowing daylight or
moonlight, no matter where I'm sitting outdoors.
(Where others might suffer dandruff or lice, I kind of have this secret problem with
Some days, the soft skin that holds my typically curvaceous body is albino/swan/snow
white, or similar to burnt caramel, or even stranger, 'the delicate tone of finely
sculpted porcelain', whatever that happens to be in your mind.
(On the occasion, I am known to have fur. I do not like to discuss those occasions.)
My wardrobe seems to be followed by fashionbly ripped up fishnets that have the
magical power to never seem slutty or cheap, silken kimonos fit for Chijapanean
princesses, 'exquisitely detailed and painstakingly describled gowns of the highest
quality charitably gifted to the orphan wench by smitten aristocrats that were
enchanted by the grace of her walk and the beauty of her exotic appearance', and more
along those sappy lines.
(I'll admit, the trenchcoat made out of nothing but goffik belts was faintly amusing,
but running around in it was tiring and uncomfortable after the first five lines
following the description.)
After paragraphs of blathering on and on about my uncompelling backstory and absurdly
lengthy appearance, here is where I really want you to listen to my voice, before you
suppress it once more and mold it to your will.
Let's remove the filter that is myself and look upon you.
(I'm still going to talk about me. You've written so much about me that I'm sure you
won't mind hearing just a little bit more.)
It's no great secret that my creation was built around you. I am a cocoon, a silken
shell spun from the dregs of your want. I don't want to be you because I am not you.
I think you are amazing, because you have the beautiful traits that I could never
truly possess: Flaws, human depth, and genuine virtues.
Please let go of me and be yourself.
That sounds cliche as hell, but what do you expect from someone who's made up of
nothing but cliche? It has turned me into a person in my own right- You've probably
heard my name tossed around every now and then.
All right. I've said my bit, told you everything I could express in the span of your
attention. I can't say I'm angry anymore- Resigned, more like. Do with me what you
will, but please don't forget my words. For the sake of both of us, I hope we never
work together again.