Happy Friday! How are you doing? I’ll write to you shortly on my birthday, since it’d be unfair to exclude you. I don’t think I’ve had to consider this much since my birthday tends to fall on Fridays/Saturdays anyway. Aaron’s returned from the east coast and he brought several things. Both Mom and I now own old Russian hats shaped like Holden Caulfield’s, and I own several more 19th century books. The oldest now is one from 1744 — the thing scares me to be near, since I’m afraid it’ll fray into nothing. Here is the cover.
It’s dedicated to Theodore I, king of Corsica, who was still alive. This is older than the USA. This was over 100 years old when Oscar Wilde was born. Why ever Aaron’s dad owned it, I’ve not a clue.
You know those poems that are like “being a —— is like. I —. I don’t —. I love —. I hate —.”? I read one of those from the perspective of a younger sibling. It scorched my heart a little. Pearl is sitting on me now. Does she know how much I love her? Do you know how much I love you? My heart keeps cracking. It’s why I’ve wanted to kill myself since I was eleven.
I think I am emotional (again) today. I won’t bother you much. I don’t want to turn eighteen. I don’t feel old enough. I thought I’d be dead by sixteen. I suppose we’ll see what happens next. Where are you? What are you thinking?
With love,
Alice