Dear Someone,
Mark, Mark - I'm Mark.
If I know you, do you know me?
Have you noticed me before? I'm the one most people remember as the Camera Guy. Sometimes as Roger's Friend. The blonde one with glasses. Or alternately, the one with the scarf. I'm the one you tend to forget completely, you know, it's not like I'm the most noteworthy guy out there. That would be Roger. He's gorgeous, he's a rock star and he's great and he's troubled and he's romantic and he's he's he's . Or Collins, the smart one. Or even Benny, who nobody really likes anymore but he was the business mind before he turned coat and fucked Miss Grey. 'Course to him, girls were always the answer. And the problem. Now, for me ... They weren't really anything in particular.
Me, well, Marueen. But then everybody thinks I turned her into a lesbian and oh, right, I'm gay too and have hidden angsty feelings for Roger. Right?
Riiight.
Next time you think about that, observe him whilst he wanders around the loft piss drunk and playing with those little toys that come in happy meals. Very attractive, let me tell you. But anyway.
I suppose it doesn't really matter than you don't remember my name or who I am or how the hell you know me. Because I don't care. I've got to separate from all these people - these people, who're going to die and leave me alone and cold and alone and alone. Like Roger. I love him - of course I do, he's my best friend - but I can't deal with him. After all now he's got Mimi ... he doesn't need me. Maureen has Joanne now and Benny has Miss Grey even though I hate the bitch for stealing him from us and Collins probably doesn't want me around. As much as he says he truly doesn't mind being my friend. Because I've asked him, you know. All of them. They smile. They laugh as if it were a joke but it's not. As you might be able to tell, I'm not -really- the joking kind of person. I'm not funny. Well I don't try to be. I can't make a point either. But God.
God, I don't want to be alone.
Pan right, zoom in on the loser on the bench in the park, writing, for once. Instead of shitting around with his camera. Smile!
I'm sorry. I'm so goddamn sorry I couldn't do anything. Angel is dead and I couldn't do anything. Mimi and Collins and Roger are sick and I couldn't do anything. Benny is gone and Maureen and Joanne are probably fighting and breaking up again and I can't fucking help them. God, I want to.
God? Is that who I'm talking to? Or am I talking to all the people who forgot me ... who don't want me. Who I want to love but can't. Maureen? I still love her. I'm not in love with her, I don't think ... I don't know, but she'll never love me like ... like that again. It was perfect while she lasted. But it's over now. I'll be okay. Because I'm always okay. I don't know who I'm talking to. I don't know anything. Maybe it is God I'm talking to. 'Cause He knows I haven't got anyone else who is able to listen, I mean they'll listen but they've got their own problems. Whatever.
I feel so selfish. I've not really got anything wrong with me. Does that make it wrong to be unhappy? I mean I don't have AIDS and I'm not dying and I'm not like, on the brink of suicide or anything. Okay, I'm lonely but isn't everyone? Maybe it's been too long since I got laid and it's doing shit to me. Oh well. I'll live. I can deal with life. At least, I can try to ... I think. I hope. So here I am, sitting in a park, and I'm any different than I was before I sat down, but I feel better. Sort of.
Sincerely, Mark.
(AN: Alright, so it doesn't have a point ((kind of like Terminator 3)). So sue me.)
Mark, Mark - I'm Mark.
If I know you, do you know me?
Have you noticed me before? I'm the one most people remember as the Camera Guy. Sometimes as Roger's Friend. The blonde one with glasses. Or alternately, the one with the scarf. I'm the one you tend to forget completely, you know, it's not like I'm the most noteworthy guy out there. That would be Roger. He's gorgeous, he's a rock star and he's great and he's troubled and he's romantic and he's he's he's . Or Collins, the smart one. Or even Benny, who nobody really likes anymore but he was the business mind before he turned coat and fucked Miss Grey. 'Course to him, girls were always the answer. And the problem. Now, for me ... They weren't really anything in particular.
Me, well, Marueen. But then everybody thinks I turned her into a lesbian and oh, right, I'm gay too and have hidden angsty feelings for Roger. Right?
Riiight.
Next time you think about that, observe him whilst he wanders around the loft piss drunk and playing with those little toys that come in happy meals. Very attractive, let me tell you. But anyway.
I suppose it doesn't really matter than you don't remember my name or who I am or how the hell you know me. Because I don't care. I've got to separate from all these people - these people, who're going to die and leave me alone and cold and alone and alone. Like Roger. I love him - of course I do, he's my best friend - but I can't deal with him. After all now he's got Mimi ... he doesn't need me. Maureen has Joanne now and Benny has Miss Grey even though I hate the bitch for stealing him from us and Collins probably doesn't want me around. As much as he says he truly doesn't mind being my friend. Because I've asked him, you know. All of them. They smile. They laugh as if it were a joke but it's not. As you might be able to tell, I'm not -really- the joking kind of person. I'm not funny. Well I don't try to be. I can't make a point either. But God.
God, I don't want to be alone.
Pan right, zoom in on the loser on the bench in the park, writing, for once. Instead of shitting around with his camera. Smile!
I'm sorry. I'm so goddamn sorry I couldn't do anything. Angel is dead and I couldn't do anything. Mimi and Collins and Roger are sick and I couldn't do anything. Benny is gone and Maureen and Joanne are probably fighting and breaking up again and I can't fucking help them. God, I want to.
God? Is that who I'm talking to? Or am I talking to all the people who forgot me ... who don't want me. Who I want to love but can't. Maureen? I still love her. I'm not in love with her, I don't think ... I don't know, but she'll never love me like ... like that again. It was perfect while she lasted. But it's over now. I'll be okay. Because I'm always okay. I don't know who I'm talking to. I don't know anything. Maybe it is God I'm talking to. 'Cause He knows I haven't got anyone else who is able to listen, I mean they'll listen but they've got their own problems. Whatever.
I feel so selfish. I've not really got anything wrong with me. Does that make it wrong to be unhappy? I mean I don't have AIDS and I'm not dying and I'm not like, on the brink of suicide or anything. Okay, I'm lonely but isn't everyone? Maybe it's been too long since I got laid and it's doing shit to me. Oh well. I'll live. I can deal with life. At least, I can try to ... I think. I hope. So here I am, sitting in a park, and I'm any different than I was before I sat down, but I feel better. Sort of.
Sincerely, Mark.
(AN: Alright, so it doesn't have a point ((kind of like Terminator 3)). So sue me.)