I am going to write a love letter.

I'm frazzled.  I cried this morning.  I wanted to just go back to bed or punch a hole in the wall.  But things are better now, and I told someone that I loved them because I was really thankful for their kindness during my hysteria, and I thought, well, he may think that I'm saying it just because I'm stressed, which I kinda was, but maybe it's true too, and how will he know?  He won't, ever, because I say almost everything in jest.
Then I remembered that I'm to write a love letter for a friend of a friend's project about love letters.  I don't know many of the details, but I thought, I can do this.  I always do this.  Just the other day I found a four-page handwritten love letter to someone (that I now loathe).  It was in a box of crap my mom had packed up from my old closet in her house.  She's turning that room into a craft room and needs the space.  I didn't even read the letter.  I threw it in the recycle bag, but then took it out, thinking that one day I might be able to read it and laugh.  It's been about seven or eight years and I'm not laughing about it yet.

I could write about a lot of things, too many things, but the thought of writing them all out makes me a little depressed, knowing that's it's just another pretend thing in my imagination, knowing, and hating, that this love letter will never be seen by the eyes of the person it is for.  Once again.