This is totally stupid. I don't get why I have to do this.
My therapist says that I have to write a letter to the person I hate the most in the world. I don't think she meant you, an utterly fictional Roman mythical god of desire, affection and erotic love. I think she meant someone real, maybe. But no. You are the person I hate the most.
I really don't know how this letter's meant to go, since she told me to "reconcile" with you, and tell you I'm sorry. I have nothing to be sorry for, and to be honest, neither do you. I think that's quite a big hole in her plan.
But I'm going to do this anyway.
So how should I start?
I hate you. It's not just you, I guess. I hate "love" in general, and you're just so readily associated to "love". My therapist says that I'm like this because of my childhood - not that I had a bad childhood. No, my childhood was actually pretty normal. Apart from the fact that since the age of three, I've been trained in Kung Fu, Judo, Boxing, Taekwondo, Karate, Muay Thai, Fencing and Wrestling. Maybe that's why I have anger management issues, have to go to classes and see a therapist. Maybe it's the reason I am writing to you now.
And why do I hate love? Because it affects me.
I have this dream. In the dream, I'm still kid, still in Kindergarten. I look at my hands, and they're squeezing sand. I look up, and my whole world stops.
It's this boy. The moment he comes, I feel happy. I feel loved. I feel complete. I'm flying, soaring in the air, and I can breathe. I feel my cheeks flush.
"Marry me, Ade," he says.
All I can see are his eyes...they're green. This beautiful green.
So why do I hate you, Cupid? What's this weird dream got to do with you?
...Why? Why do I hate you?
Because of what happens next in the dream.
"Yes," I whisper.
That's it. That's the end.
And I have no idea if it's just a dream, or if it's reality. I may or may not be engaged to the most amazing guy in the world. I have no idea, and that pisses me off. But it's more the feeling this guy gives me - completely bliss. I've never felt that before, in real life. And so I'm pretty sure it's a dream.
And that's why I hate you. Because you represent unattainable love.
Anyway, I'm sorry. There. That should please my therapist. I'm saying sorry. I'm not actually sorry, but I think the therapist said the point of this was for me to "reconcile".
She told me to mail this letter. I have no idea what your address is, so maybe on the front I'll just write "Cupid". This letter will probably end up in some recycling plant, somewhere. Or more realistically, in this uncaring and un-environmental world, it'll end up in some landfill, covered in sauce and nappies.
For the record, I am kind of sorry. It's not your fault I hate you.
P.S. I also have to give a copy of this to my therapist. I don't think it's so she can actually read it (the masterpiece of a book it is), but to give her more material for our sessions. After two years of weekly one-hour sessions, you kind of have no more to say. Anyway, I will probably write a different letter to give to her. A less crazy letter.
"Done," I said, putting down the pen.
"Finally," Keri replied, annoyed, rolling her eyes. "Mail it later. It's about to start."
It was my turn to roll my eyes.
"Why are we even here, Keri? All school events are beyond lame."
"Since when have you cared about lame?"
I didn't take offence. She was totally right. I was not the epitome of coolness - or whatever was classified as coolness in an AmericanHigh School.