Expensive.

Stuck.
I look down at the piece of paper in front of me and cuss to myself, under my breath.
I'm stuck.
All I have written down is one word.
Expensive.
I don't know what to do with it.
I turn it sideways, literally.
I still can't do fuck all with it.
My paper gets crumpled up and thrown into the trashcan while I stare at my table.
My table says nothing on it, except for the faint markings of what was possibly a love letter at one time.
Who knows.
Expensive.
I trace the letters with my fingers and frown, I do not know why I wrote it on the paper.
It means nothing to me, independently, and It hardly means anything in a sentence.
I wish I could crumble my table up and throw it away.
I'd be staring at the floor.
Through the floor, beneath me, is hell.
At least, that's what I've been taught.
Secretly, though, I think that hell is the reason I'm looking at my table.
I don't want to look up and see hell.
This Highschool hellhole.
Everyone is a liar.
It's disgusting.
For some reason, the children who attend school with me are too much like me.
Drama is what they leech.
They live for the drama.
If they cannot get drama, they become whores or bullies.
If they can get drama, they become depressed or ecstatic.
They feel the need to associate with a boyfriend or a girlfriend that they don't know, because it gives them the drama they want.
But there are the select few.
The ten people in my school who let me know, daily, that Ontario Highschool is not hell.
The people who manage to learn someones name before asking them out.
The people who manage to learn my name before deciding that they don't like me.
The people who help me see that everyone's an oyster with a grain of sand.
I've spent too long telling myself that I hate everyone, when I know that it's not true.
I just hate the majority.
But then there is you.
And you asked me for a dollar to day.
You said you'd pay me back, but I think i won't let you.
You are not J! and I know you a lot less than I know J!
I have never written you a song, and you have never read one that I /have/ written.
I've never told you that I love you.
I've never hugged you.
I've never told you my life story.
You probably do not know what my voice sounds like when I'm angry.
But for some reason.
Some really awkwardly strange reason.
I think that I like you far too much.
And that's why i want to, somehow, someway, get to know you.

Love always,
Ryan Thomas Dilks

ps.
I've learned my identity again, I'm also more of the man I've always wanted to be.
I'm becoming a real person, now.