An Open Letter to Everyone I Ever Liked

I swear, this unhealthy infatuation routine will be the end of my sanity. You see, other people – they actually do something when they like someone. They throw meaningful glances, send text messages, smile, and – I don’t know – say hi or some shit.

Me? I do nothing. The more I like you, the more I ignore you. I can totally treat the person I’m obsessing with like they're the air. Hell, even the wind gets more visible attention from me. But I fixate. Oh, hell, do I fixate. You don’t even know it, but we’ve already had several meet-cutes inside my head. I build up serendipitous scenarios all the time that I have trouble recognizing them from actual events.

Now, this may look like I’m assuming you like me, but you should know that I’m not the jumping-into-conclusions type. It would have been better if I were assuming you like me too. If I were delusional in that manner, I would never have to feel guilty about my fantasies. Frankly, I’ve realized that nobody will ever like me even if I made the effort to flirt. I’m just not attractive like that. Throw my paranoia and awkwardness into the punch, and you have the perfect specimen for a crazy spinster.

The only time someone will know that I like them will be the time they crack my skull open, hook my brain to a supercomputer, and start an intensive research. You know, like that thing they did with that kid’s brain in John Saul’s “Shadows” or in one of Walter Bishop's outrageous experiments in “Fringe.”

But that’s beside the point. I don’t think I will ever have a healthy relationship with anybody. I know I have a problem. But so far, the only thing I have done to address it is to rant on my blog. Check it out; you will see posts of insecurity and self-deprecation. They’re lovely. I rant about my loneliness, my androphobia, and my terribly convoluted thoughts. Have I done something else? Maybe some proactive shit like talking to a shrink? Hell, no. A therapist is expensive. I can blab the same things to my friends, and they’ll probably give me the same psychobabble anyway.

My friends are smart, so I know they give excellent advice. But it’s not like I follow them. I’m terrible at follow-throughs. I guess what I’m trying to say is you will never know that I like you – ever. Sucks for me. If only I were like other people. But, no. Instead of devising ways for you to notice me, I devise more scenarios of us together. Inside my head. Now that I’ve written it down, it feels a little creepy. Ha.

You don’t even know me, but I read your blog on a regular basis. I stalk your social media accounts. I check your photos. I build our fantasy life together based on the information I’ve gathered online. See what I mean? I need a fucking shrink.

But it won’t matter anyway, right? Because you will never know I like you. Unless my girlfriends betray me and spill all my secrets or unless – for some miraculous reason – the heavens grant me with gumption, I will take your names and your faces to my grave. So I hope you think of me sometimes. And see you never.