Dear Molly

Molly,

I absolutely despise you. You're a horrid person, with no backbone and no sense of confidence and a naivety that's so bloody annoying. I know certain people might think your shining light is just hidden beneath your meek exterior, but I know better. You're a mouse, through and through, and I couldn't believe I ever said I needed you.

You're a fraud, hollow and empty, and I regret ever trusting you even for a moment. You're a pushover, and you couldn't keep up with me even if you tried. I am a Holmes, I'm far superior than anybody on this earth, especially someone like you. Just because you have a degree in pathology doesn't put you in my level. Your dreams of being my peer are nothing but that: dreams.

In case it hasn't been clear: you are nothing to me. You are someone who gives me coffee and access to lab equipment, more like a butler than an acquaintance, much less a friend, much less anything else. You never impress me, and your attempts at getting my attention are pathetic and they never work. Did you honestly think that additional lipstick and a cheap dress could do anything for me? Your physical appearance is laughable. Even from an evolutionary standpoint, your hips are too narrow for efficient childbirth. Your breasts are too small, and your lips too limp. I abhor physical contact; and you have the least chance of anybody to make me long for it.

Love. You've always loved me and I think it's idiotic and pitiful. I never loved you and I never could. Not even as a friend, or an ally. If you think you're indispensable to me, you're sadly mistaken. You're just easy, plain and simple, and your blind willingness to help me in hopes that I end up reciprocating your feelings makes it easier for me to work, if only because I don't have to exert any effort to get your cooperation.

You mean nothing to me. If you had ever thought otherwise, then you had fooled yourself.

I miss you so much, my love. Your absence is no doubt the cruelest form of torture imaginable. Someday, when I have taken my final breath, I expect nothing less than a warm welcome from you, alright? Then I shall finally tell you the words I so desperately want you to hear. Until then, please, do as you have always done and wait for me.

Sherlock Holmes

Note: The author isn't entirely sure where this little mess of a letter came from. All she knows is that it sometimes does quite suck to be primarily an angst writer.