You can always send me letters wherever I am, as long as you include a schedule of when you'll be at your various addresses.
I've found some of our old letters to each other, as well, and some of them are absolutely fucking hilarious. Our younger selves were utterly insane, and probably would have benefited from sedatives.
Others nearly made me cry, remembering how utterly dire everything seemed to us at the age of fifteen-- how we could write pages and pages of some extended metaphor (God, Breheny would have been SO proud) just to try and make sense of what the hell we were going through, and what we really wanted.
I don't have any more of THAT series of letters-- I burned all of my copies the end of my junior year, when we stopped talking. I just remember them all, vividly.
I used to write letters to myself a lot, during classes. They'd end up being one or two sides of looseleaf, and I still find them when I go through my binders sometimes. I found one from the winter I turned sixteen, and realized that I could still remember sitting in Harding's english class and writing, glancing up every now and again to be sure she wasn't looking at me.
This is turning more into a post than a comment, but hey. It's all good.
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branchandroot
no subject
Date: 2008-07-12 12:40 am (UTC)I've found some of our old letters to each other, as well, and some of them are absolutely fucking hilarious. Our younger selves were utterly insane, and probably would have benefited from sedatives.
Others nearly made me cry, remembering how utterly dire everything seemed to us at the age of fifteen-- how we could write pages and pages of some extended metaphor (God, Breheny would have been SO proud) just to try and make sense of what the hell we were going through, and what we really wanted.
I don't have any more of THAT series of letters-- I burned all of my copies the end of my junior year, when we stopped talking. I just remember them all, vividly.
I used to write letters to myself a lot, during classes. They'd end up being one or two sides of looseleaf, and I still find them when I go through my binders sometimes. I found one from the winter I turned sixteen, and realized that I could still remember sitting in Harding's english class and writing, glancing up every now and again to be sure she wasn't looking at me.
This is turning more into a post than a comment, but hey. It's all good.
M'enverra une lettre, et je répondrai tout de suite!