Dear Devon,
My intention was to write you a love letter for your birthday. It was going to be filled with poetic references to your flowing blonde locks and charming smile. I was planning to confess that I pasted a picture of my own face on top of Christina Ricci's on a printout circa 1998. But, I can't write that letter. I have too many pent up emotions, too much "unfinished business" if you will. (Get it, unfinished business? Like, from "Casper"?) Anyway, I'm angry.
I'm an (almost) 23-year-old single girl with a skewed conception of how boys (guys, men, whatever) act in real life. And, call me dramatic, but I think it's all your fault.
When I was 5, you sneakily lead me to believe that if I was ever sitting alone at a dance (wearing a long-sleeved bridal-ish type dress for some reason beyond my control), the boy of my dreams would somehow come to life, romantically pull me into the middle of the floor then sway with me side to side -- he'd literally have me floating on air. And then, he'd ask if he could "keep me." I've got news for you, Dev. That ISN'T what they ask. And they don't sway that slowly. You totally fooled me. I can't believe I fell for that.
True, I was young, naive. Then I grew up a little. I turned 10. "Now and Then" became my movie of choice. You told me I was a nice girl (OK, you told Roberta but this is my fantasy, go with it). You asked politely if you could kiss me. You got permission first. You used your manners. You were shy and gentle, and it was adorable. But it doesn't work that way, either. I'm now pretty sure no other guy in the history of the universe has ever asked if it "would it be alright" before going in for the kill. Like, even in the Midwest. You manipulated me again. Dev, you were deceitful.
When I sit and reflect on our relationship (and trust me, I reflect), I can only remember one time when you were completely honest. "You can make babies without kissing," you told me. Remember? We were sitting on an upside down canoe at the lake watching a couple making out. That's true, you can. Also... I never told you, but I really didn't like it when you called me "The Icebox."
So that brings me to now. It's been years since we won that Little Giants game. Almost two decades have gone by since we shared that dance in my haunted house. I haven't forgotten, but it seems you have.
I tweet you all the time and you never respond. Seriously, I tweeted you last night. It's like we never existed! It's like you're a ghost! Sorry, I couldn't resist.
Does your silence mean that you're upset that my tweets to you only reference your brilliant work in the 90s? According to IMDB, you've been in some other things more recently. Is that it? Are you mad that I'm living in the past? Excuse me for dwelling on what once was. All I'm asking is for one simple tweet. Just one. It's @jsam1126.
Oh, and happy birthday.
Love always,
Me
