As of lately, I have started writing you hand written letters. They are super foolish, but I decided to write them anyways. I know you are a very very busy man, so I didn’t want to continue sending you messages on facebook and pissing you off with your phone beeping every time I sent you something. This way, I get my words down but no matter what, I cannot press Send.
I’m a little nervous today. As I told you, I finally got a job, so I’ve been learning all the new products and how to operate their system. I was supposed to have this weekend off and I was going to spend it getting myself some new clothes since most of mine are not allowed at work. I’ve been alternating 4 shirts and 3 pairs of pants since they are the only ones I own that do not have graphics or logos on them. And now I can’t since I’ll be working. And this Sunday I will be sent to a new store where I will be working all by my lonesome. Normally I’d be ok with it, but being unfamiliar with the new space makes me uneasy, and I hate feeling that. Even though I know what to do, I’m am constantly looking for someone to tell me I am doing it right. I’ve always been like that, and it’s bloody annoying but its what I do.
Anyways, yesterday during my break, I wrote you another letter. I was telling you how I thought that I would be unworthy of you. Once you told me that I was the one who was better, that you would somehow hurt me and that I needed to let you go. I wonder if you still feel this way. I guess I will never know because you never tell me. Maybe when your work load as decreased then you can tell me. But I have always known that it is truly me who is the one who would disappoint you. I feel like I am beneath you on so many levels. I have been in school forever, and yet on paper, my highest completed level of schooling is high school, I work in retail, I’m in debt, I’m lazy and sloppy and overweight. While you own your own business (and run it), you served in the war, you know what you want in life and you do it. You are neat and tidy and content, you are breathtakingly handsome (If only you’d show me more pictures of you, that would be awesome), work out all the time, beautiful green eyes. The only thing I could give you would be me, and I’m told pretty much every day how that isn’t much at all. I’d give you every part of me if I felt that I was worthy, but like my husband tells me, I’m a lousy wife, how could I possibly have anything to offer you?
And yet I find myself dreaming about you. Hoping you’d write me. Hoping you’d think about me. You know I think about you constantly because I tell you so. But I am always wondering, if I’m there in your afterthoughts. Someone who you have never met. Someone who wishes every night that something could happen between us. I am a sad excuse for a woman.