An open letter to J.K. Rowling

WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?! WHAT THE FLYING FUCK?!

Sirius is the first legitimate father figure Harry has in his life, someone to look up to and to care for him, always be there for him. Sirius loves Harry like a son. He’s always there to protect him. And then, YOU FUCKING KILL HIM. YOU FUCKING BITCH. YOU BITCH.

Cedric is probably the nicest human being to ever exist. He’s a hufflepuff, which should tell you that already. He’s the one that gives Harry a hint on how to open the clue for the next task, because he’s got an honest to god great soul. Then, when he and Harry get to the cup at the same time, he doesn’t selfishly take it, he offers to take it at the same time, together, because he plays fair. And then, YOU FUCKING KILL HIM, YOU FUCKING BITCH. YOU BITCH. You even have him ask Harry to TAKE HIS BODY BACK TO HIS FATHER. YOU BITCH.

Now the rest of this is going to be about the 7th book.
WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?! WHAT THE FLYING FUCK?!
WERE YOU WRITING IT AND PICKED NAMES OUT OF A HAT, AND THOSE WERE THE ONES THAT WERE GOING TO DIE?
BECAUSE THAT IS THE ONLY GOOD REASON YOU COULD GIVE ME FOR KILLING OFF THESE MOTHERFUCKING GREAT PEOPLE.

first things first.
Hedwig has been with Harry through everything. She’s almost human with the way she understands him. Then she fights off a deatheater, trying to protect Harry, because that’s what she does. AND THEN, YOU FUCKING KILL HER, YOU FUCKING BITCH. YOU BITCH.

Lupin and Tonks were probably the greatest couple ever. Lupin was another father figure for Harry. He cared for him like a son, and was always there to protect him. He was also such a strong character for not letting the fact that he’s a wherewolf define him, he handled it with care and made sure no one got hurt because of it. Tonks was just a beautiful person, inside and out. Her personality lit up the whole room. They were married, they loved each other, and she was pregnant. They were going to have a child. And then, YOU FUCKING KILL THEM, YOU FUCKING BITCH. YOU BITCH.

Dobby. All he ever does is try and save Harry. The first time he shows up, he’s trying to save Harry’s life by preventing him returning to Hogwarts. Later, he’s freed and he’s happy because he has no master. And then he shows up to save Harry and his friends one last time. His dying words to Harry are the most depressing thing you’ll ever hear. “What a beautiful place… to be with friends. Dobby is happy to be with friends.” AND THEN YOU FUCKING KILL HIM, YOU FUCKING BITCH. YOU BITCH. And the tombstone they make for him says, “Here lies Dobby: a free elf”. Fuck. Just fuck.

Snape is the most tragic character in all of Harry Potter. He was in love with Lily Evans, had to endure torturing bullying in high school, and was a reformed death eater. He came to Dumbledore in desperation, and in complete honesty with his intentions, to turn around and be good. Every single book, Harry thinks that Snape is out to get him, but in reality, he’s saving his life every single time. For example, in the first book, Quirrel tries to bewtich Harry’s broom, and Snape tries to countercurse it. Because they see him, they think it’s him, but it’s the furthest from the truth. Dumbeldore, in the 6th book, told Snape to kill him. Snape was ordered to kill someone by that very person, the last person on earth he would ever want dead. Snape had to let people think he was evil in order to save Harry, in the long run. And then, and then, Harry has Lily’s eyes. And in his last breath, Snape asks Harry to look into his eyes, so he can see hers one last time. BECAUSE YOU FUCKING KILL HIM, YOU FUCKING BITCH. YOU BITCH.

Fred and George. Fuck. This is the worst fucking one. Because well, they’re twins, but they’re more than that. They have a deep connection to each other that no one comprehends… they’re always on the same wavelength, finishing each other’s sentences, speaking in unison. They are truly brothers, in every sense of the word. And they’re both so happy when Percy comes back and apologizes, and then Percy makes a joke, and Fred is so happy and surprised that Percy made a joke, because he never does, AND THEN YOU FUCKING KILL FRED. YOU FUCKING BITCH CUNT HOEBAG MOTHERFUCKING PIECE OF SHIT. YOU KILL FUCKING FRED. FRED. As in FRED AND GEORGE. Not only do you kill him, but then you go and do this:
“Fred’s lifeless cold body lay on the ground, unmoving and peaceful; the ghost his last laugh still etched upon his face.”

NO. JUST NO. YOU DON’T GET TO DO THAT, YOU BITCH. YOU DON’T GET TO HAVE A CHARACTER FOR COMIC RELIEF IN THE FIRST 6 BOOKS AND THEN DECIDE HE DESERVES TO DIE. FUCKING HELL NO, YOU SON OF A BITCH.

The worst part is, you left George all alone. You’ve even said it. There’s no way George would EVER get over the death of Fred. They’re always together. Always. He’d be losing his other half. If he ever laughed again it would sound hollow, like there was something missing. He would say something in a room by himself and the silence that replied would almost strangle him. Something that he and Fred used to find funny would lose all humor to him. He’d be a walking shell of his former self, longing to be reunited with the other half to be complete again. And Fred, if he could watch this from heaven, or wherever he ends up after dying, would have to watch his brother be miserable for the rest of his life. He would have to watch as George cried himself to sleep every night and know that he couldn’t do anything about it. He couldn’t be the one to comfort his own brother when he desperately needed to. It would be pure torture.

you can’t just do that, J.K. Rowling. Do you even realise what you’ve done?

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this feeling, it’s familiar.

It’s the same one I got on the first day of school. It’s the same one I got when you didn’t call. It’s making me sick to my stomach, thinking about you. You make me want to disappear, honestly. I don’t need you in my life. I don’t want you in my life. And I’m not just saying that. I’m not going to keep running back. You’re pathetic, and it’s rubbing off on me. I have no desire to ever see you again. Forget closure. It’d be nice, but I’ve given up on that prospect. Now, all I want is to move on and forget all about you. Because in the long run of things, you mean nothing to me. And that’s how I want it to be.

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I honestly have no idea what I’m doing anymore. There must have been a point, some point in my life where I was sure of where I was going, or what I was doing. Or at least, why I was doing it. But lately it feels as if it’s always been like this. Where I’m just a dog chasing its tail, but I’ve got no idea what I’ll do with it once I’ve got it. No, that analogy doesn’t even work because if I’m chasing a tail I know what I’m chasing. The reality of it is, is that I’ve got no idea what it is I’m after.

It’s gotten to a point where I can’t even look back anymore. Now, when I think about myself in the past, it’s all a blur. Even sophomore year, only two years ago. I can hardly remember a thing that happened that year. When I look at pictures of myself then, I can’t even remember what it was like inside my mind then. I don’t remember who I was, or how I thought. Is this what growing up is?

Maybe I’m having trouble remembering because I’ve blocked a large chunk of my life off in my mind. Maybe I was so unbearably miserable that I decided certain years of my life weren’t worth remembering.

I now rely on other’s memories of me to understand just how far I’ve come. And the conclusion I’ve come to is that the Melissa from then, the elementary, middle and early high-school years Melissa, is a stranger to me. I’ve changed in ways I never could have imagined. But… who’s to say if it’s for better or for worse?

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camel filters

The afternoon sun rests lightly over the fog that surrounds us as we sit on a wooden bench. Only a roof above us, a sad excuse for shelter along the bike path that separates us and the reality of her neighborhood, her parents waiting for us in the kitchen of her childhood home. We don’t care. We’re the modern prophets with the answer that everyone will ignore, but we don’t care, because they don’t.

She hands me a cigarette, and I allow myself to feel special for a moment because I know I’m the only person she’ll bum cigarettes too. I know this because she tells me this. I believe most of what she tells me, because why would she lie to me? She’s my guide, my teacher, my mentor, leading me down to become the worst possible version of myself. I follow because after so many years of searching for meaning above ground, I figure the next place to look is in the dirt, and so we dig. We’ve been digging for a month now, and the hole is only getting deeper. I wonder how long it will be until I can’t see the light anymore.

I cough, and she laughs because I still haven’t got the hang of it. I don’t even like cigarettes. I smoke them with her because I can’t think of a good enough reason not to. Passing bikers shoot us with their judging eyes, expressing their disapproval in a single expression as they pass. This is where the word irony comes from. People whizzing pass us on bicycles, getting into tip-top shape in desperate attempts to elongate their futile existence, and we’re doing just the opposite. We want to speed up the inevitable demise, we have no desire to live comfortably at a ripe old age, and we’re shoving it in their faces. We’re putting our staggering apathy on display to the world, asking them to care about the fact that we don’t. Look at us! We’re being obscenely self-destructive for you! We’re sacrificing ourselves for you, so that you have something to talk about, something to lament over on the 4 o’clock news. We’ll be a car crash happening before your eyes, and all you can do is watch.

Because this is what we want. We want to be the ones to dig so deep we reach the red hot center of the universe, we want to use self-inflicted misery because maybe, just maybe, it’ll get us there. To the meaning we’ve been looking for. To enlightenment.

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I have fantasies

about shouting. Shouting from rooftops, from mountaintops, from the middle of the road at midnight. Shouting to no one and about nothing, or sometimes shouting at people or just one. I have fantasies about shouting until I lose my voice, shouting because it’s the only way anyone will listen. Shouting when no one is saying a word, shouting when I’ll be the only voice that’s heard. Shouting because I have something to say, and it’s been inside too long and the only way it’s coming out is loudly, inarticulately, raw and desperate, a choking sob of a painful truth. Shouting because my anger is escaping and I can’t control or contain it, my emotions coming out on full volume, punishing my vocal cords until they’re sore and dry. Shouting from a window overlooking city streets and telling them, telling everyone, telling them what they need to hear. What I need to say. A barbaric yawp, in the words of Mr. Walt Whitman.

And in these fantasies, I never know what it is I’m actually shouting.

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okay, maybe not

maybe i have a lot to say. but right now, everything i want to say is directed to you.
yes, you. the one who’ll never read this , and even if you did, you probably wouldn’t give a shit.

but right now, all i’m asking is for a fraction of your attention, maybe just so you could hear me say this
and i mean this sincerely,
so listen up.

fuck you.

no, seriously. fuck you. fuck you and your fucking plaid shirts and your fucked up walls and your addiction to that fucking band that EVERYBODY LIKES, BUT NOBODY LOVES. WHY?! BECAUSE THEY’RE GOOD, BUT THEY’RE NOT THAT FUCKING GOOD! No one’s going to remember them 20 years from now, asshole! and fuck your creepy man-crush on that beat poet. It doesn’t make you cool that you want to be gay, because newsflash, you’re not fucking gay, and i know that firsthand. You act like you’re so fucking deep and so fucking messed up and no one understands you but that’s a load of bullshit because there’s nothing to fucking understand! you’re not some special kind of genius, you’re just a fucking teenager who’s either high or horny all the time, or both. When you write down those “poems” to try and make yourself seem fucking transcendental, I know it’s just lyrics you copied, you pretentious prick. You’re the most hypocritical person I’ve ever met. It’s sad that you need to get high and drunk or whatever sort of fucked up all the time to survive your mind-numbing, miserable life. But to be honest, I don’t pity you, because we all have to live through it. And most of us can do it without pussying out and running to weed and other drugs. You just act like you’ve got a special kind of misery, like no one understands you, like you’re really gonna mean something, but you’re just another fucking teenager. Grow the fuck up.

the sad thing is, even though this is directed at someone else, it sounds like I’m talking about myself for most of it.

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odd

but I’ve only just realized how little I actually have to say.

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