Dear Ms. Leading,

I regret to inform you I've fallen out of lust.
It must be so hard to understand.
Did you really think me a fool enough to play along?
And make believing everything you said was true
Push your pouting lips on other unsuspecting lovers

The Dear Hunter


Excerpts from Ms. Leading's personal journal

"This is journal #5. I've been writing since 2003/4. One for junior year of high school, one for senior year, one for a college freshman, one as a sophomore-junior and now this one. A journal for a fucked up 21 year old with no motivation to live. People like depressing things. People would read this. It's terribly depressing. This will have no ending. I don't think people realize that most stories don't really have an ending. I feel like most stories that are told are stories about the beginnings of somethings. The start. New life. The year zero. Fuck this. I hate not being able to sleep."

"I hate that the fear of being alone outweighs being in a relationship that is just terrible. I don't get it. Or even in my case, it outweighs being mistreated in a "this-is-not-a-relationship" relationship.

I'm not sure I'll ever know about love truly. I'm not even sure I'll ever be loved back. Which is frustrating but what can you do but carry on? I'm not going to sit here and pretend that I won't be disappointed if it never happens for me. Because I will be disappointed. The reason I will be so disappointed won't be because I want marriage and a conventional family. It's because it's what seems to be the meaning of all of this- what makes waking up worth it. It's what's been communicated to all of us as truly living. If you never get that fairy tale love, you're just a shell of a person. How sad for you. Why is this the ultimate happiness? Why does this have to be what we're meant here for? If I never get that I'm just sure I'll be looked at as a leper or a TB victim. 'What's wrong with her?'

I'll tell you. Everyone blows. No one was able to handle my libido, my humor, my honesty and my refusal to settle for a half-assed relationship. I'm not the girl who will sit there and laugh at you if you're not funny. I'll tell you if you're an asshole. I'll tell you that I've cheated before. I'll tell you that I don't want to be a mother. I'll tell you that I hate PDA. I can't cook or bake and I only like sewing if it's making a purse or tote bag. I won't call you 'my man.' I won't have dinner ready for you when you come home because I'll also be coming home from an 8 hour day. I won't move for your job/career- only for my own. I'm assertive. I only love fully.

I guess love isn't meant for people like me.

Fuck everyone who made me and millions of others think that love is the meaning of all this. WE are the meaning of all of this; who we choose to be in this life. Not who we choose to share it with if we're lucky. I refuse to believe that life is for something as few and far between as mutual love. I refuse."

"My eagerness to serve others, to do good unto others, is just a guilty conscience covering up my selfishness and the bratty-ness I feel when I think I'm entitled to something. I had a break through tonight, as I whined and clicked and copy and pasted lyrics into my Livejournal account. How self involved I am. How incredibly vain I can be when I have the balls to make such a bold statement; to assume that I am so much better.

'He should've chosen me.'

How could I click and type and E-whine such an awfully narcissistic idea? No one in their right mind should ever keep themselves up at night with thoughts of what could've been, let alone thoughts that wreek (oh god spelling @ 4AM) vanity. I'm still such a child in so many ways.

- I feel I am owed something from everyone- when no one in this world owes anyone a damn thing.
- I want to kill myself at age 21. My prime. My equivalent to quality, primetime Emmy-winning dark comedy is turning into daytime drama- no offense All My Children. I still love you dearly when I care enough to catch up on who's sleeping with whose wife with amnesia and an evil twin that's actually a ghost.

Look at how 'indie' I am listening to Elliot Smith and writing in a journal I bought at a discount store. I'm trendy. Where's my chai latte and plaid scarf?

... I feel myself growing up a bit lately. Just these past several days. I feel like things are becoming a bit clearer. Almost as if the wet towel I've been wrapped and tangled in is loosening its grip. My handwriting is getting progressively worse."

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