Lessons From the Kissing Booth

Dear Everyone,

Good morning!
I was happy to hear that you're well, that you're not being beaten or starved or unduly harmed in any way. But I do wish that you were content. You are such a star, such an absolutely perfect being, and I think that you don't just let things happen. I think that you hunt them down, pluck them from their hiding places, and then become upset that they are not yet ripe. I think that the universe wants you to win but that you're suspicious of a trap and so you set your course to lose.
But then we're strugglers by nature, you and I, and I suppose it's better that we be fighting against something rather than against adversaries entirely of our own creation.
Which, of course, could be any of this.
But I apologize. I don't mean for there to be so much of this so early in a letter. It's just that early mornings (before noon) and late nights (after 8) make me acutely conscious of the weight of my skull. I sometimes try to fit my thumbs under the edge of it--my skull--and lift. I try to alleviate the pressure of all this thinking, but likely all I'm really doing is bruising something. If they crack open my head when I die, remember to save for science the twin thumb prints on either side of the nape of my neck.
I woke up this morning with a slight sore throat, a faintly throbbing headache. This happens most mornings. If it felt like an allergy I could be clever and say that I'm allergic to consciousness. Instead, I just feel like I have a cold. There's nothing clever about a cold.
I'm so scattered today, but the facts are these: I am at work. I spend most of my day standing quietly. I generally have little conversation and even less interaction. There is a pitcher of white tulips next to me. Tulips are unfamiliar flowers, and these white ones are ghostly and smell, perversely, like sperm. But maybe that's untrue. The lights are dim and the soundtrack to Chocolat makes me sleepy. There's a bird in here, Maytag, and I feel like a jerk because I get so annoyed by how much he sings.
When I got dressed today I considered the weather. I am inside all day long, though, and the weather only touches me on my way to or from the bus. But thinking about outside when I choose the day's outfit makes me feel a little more connected to the world.
I've been in this mood I get into sometimes where it seems as though I am waiting for bad things to happen. Times like these, I fail miserably at being independent and in charge. Instead, I want someone around all the time to hug me whenever I demand. You know how tactile I am, and how I like to hug people. And the thing is that generally, when someone is there, the mood vanishes. (Except for those late nights and early mornings.) I guess I just get lonely more than I like to admit. I still love living alone, but I am still so used to people. It's tough.
We went over to Alki yesterday, the beach over in West Seattle. The sand is scattered with living things--sea anemones and barnacles. Humans were not meant to be walking there, I feel. It was just barely warm in the sunshine and I was sad and thoughtful. The sea anemones, when poked, close in on themselves like the kids in those commercials for sour candy, where the candy is so sour it sucks their face in. I understood, though, how they felt--closing up like that.
I am sentimental, indeed.
I was there with Jeff, who is much the sort of boy you've been telling me all these years to go out with. You always were smarter than me.
Life is simple here, and mostly I enjoy it. (Although by the tone of this letter, you couldn't tell.) I hope that your family is well. Tell your mother/brother/nephew/aunt's cousin's father that I said hello.
I am thinking of you fondly.

Samantha