this world has too many options for life.

Dear you,

I wasn't going to write anymore of these letters.

I wasn't going to do a lot of things after I got here. Here of course being college.

But I find that even though I'm living in a different place and hardly anything's the same, I can't bring myself to stop wanting to write. And I know that you're never going to read these letters but it seems to be that I can write much easier if I pretend it's to you. Maybe that's because you always liked my writing so much more than anyone else.

I think mostly I just need to try to figure out what's wrong with my head. Because we can both agree that there's something wrong with me. I pretend I'm right a lot of the time and say others are wrong, but what the hell do I know? Probably nothing. I remember things and can state them sometimes as facts, but my own opinions and thoughts get completely jumbled and end up as hardly English.

I had an anxiety attack in my intro to literature class because I wanted to raise my hand, but didn't have the courage to do so. I sat there, clenching my fists, wanting so badly to just say what was in my head, but the problem is, I'm shy. I'm horribly shy and have anxiety and get told all the time that I over think things, because I do, I really do and I'm always so worried about the most pointless things. I hate sharing my opinion because I know when I do it'll be wrong to someone and I can't stand that. I don't need to be right. I just hate how I'm not seen as valid.

And you want to know something else? My least favorite question in the history of questions (and I hate questions in general) is, "What's your major?" because I have to say, "Undeclared." And you know what those shitheads do? They give me this pitying look, or this look of surprise, like I can't want an education until I know exactly what I want to do with my life. I hate it. I hate it to the point where I don't want to answer anymore. I want to say, "Whatever I want it to be." but I can't, because that's not what they mean. They mean what am I going to do with the rest of my life, and you know, I just can't say that right now. I'm barely eighteen and people expect me to pick from my interests the best thing for me. How am I supposed to know the best thing for me when I can't even hold a proper conversation for more than a minute without messing up my words somehow?

I've lost the point of this letter, but I don't even care. It's not even a letter. It's a rant.

I sent an actual letter to my best friend the other day. I really hope he writes back soon. I don't think he understands how much I miss him. And trust me, if it weren't for having my best friend as my roommate, I probably wouldn't be writing this right now. Don't think too deeply into that, though. It could mean anything. I won't say, for now, because I don't want to think about that. I don't want to think, "What if" because that's all my life is right now and I'm tired of it.

I'm kind of just tired in general, I think.

I hope things are better for you wherever you are and you don't get anxiety when you have to raise your hand in your college literature class. I wish I could ask you so many questions, like as if this were a real letter. I'm sorry that I can't. Or maybe, you should just be sorry for that. I won't ever know if you are or not.

Sincerely,
xx
Blue