Dear everyone I have ever met,
The subject is Lucky, because I can’t help but think of that wonderful Radiohead song when I think about this. “Pull me out of the aircrash. Pull me out of the lake. Because I’m your superhero.”
All my life, I have been the one for friends to come to. No matter what, anyone can come to me and talk to me about anything. I would always be there, giving support, giving advice, and just being a good friend. People seem to appreciate it. Whether it’s a hug, or a kiss on the cheek, or just words of gratitude, I know I’ve helped them with something.
This fills me with joy. Because I know, deep down, helping isn’t really me. But I do it because you people mean the world to me. And I’m good at it. I can’t remember a time where I didn’t either solve a problem for someone, or have them go out of it renewed with a sense of optimism. If I can make another happy, because it’s not truly me, I think I did something right.
So, because of that, I ask, who helps the helper when he falls to his knees? Who fixes the fixer when he’s lost all his tools? Time and time again I have proven that no one helps. The only problems I can’t seem to fix are my own, and because of my sarcasm, my intelligence, and my ability to fix problems, no one tries to help. In fact, once I fix the problem, most people seem to go away from me.
I’m hurting. And I’m alone. And I know you all know it, because I’ve made it public. I just want to talk to someone, anyone, about anything. I don’t care what we talk about, I just want someone there. I need a friend. Something I don’t seem to have, but was to so many people in my days.
Besides, men aren’t supposed to cry. And I know I will, if I let it out.
“Kill me again with love.”
-Your short, blonde friend. Who you say you love, but ultimately ignore.