Dear William,
Okay I'm only going to say this once. Don't call me that. Anything, and I mean anything but that. Paccius is my oompa loompa if you will, and sure don't I know Pacey and/or Pacy is derivitive of it? I know all too well. Next to you now there are only two other people in this world living that call me that: my dear old Uncle Paccius who assures me I'm his favourite nephew and named after him, and my Grams - but you can't take any notice of them because one is a recovering alcoholic who devotes their life after a failed marriage and having the kids up and leave 'em to tending a bee farm, and the other has blue rinse. And it's a sad day in hell when people pay heed to a forty something guy with blue rinse!
My Grandpa used to call me it too before he died, but... well that was only ever in reprimand when he wanted to pull me into line; no different to middle-naming people I guess, I hate when I get middle-named, don't you? You just know you're in the doghouse when that happens.
Major digression there. Point is: stop calling me that. Sorry, don't even start calling me that to thereafter have to stop it. I mean it, or I'll bring out the big guns. I'm sure Dom or Theresa or... Trish wouldn't object finding out that a certain little someone voluntarily enroled himself in ballet until the age of thirteen. Huh?
I'm sure you think I'm overreacting, but I'm totally not. I'm just a stickler when it comes to things like that, and it's not even like I call you William if your name's short for, I don't know, Wilbert or Wilbur or something or - Wilbur. Wilbur. Was he a pig or something?
Okay... I'm nearly sure there was a point to me writing to you this week. Oh, oh guess what? I'm moving out. I, Pacey Witter am moving out. I got this whole plan sorted see. Plus my Pop's more than able to write me off as an emancipated minor come the time, in fact, it was practically his idea. One of his lectures. I sort of told Dawson about the argument. But I skipped past some details. It was nothing new anyway.
Carrie, the ugly stepsister, well... in my head we aren't related. Let me dream. Anyway, she said that she can't wait till I hit eighteen and Dad can just take me out back and - I quote - "do me over." It's the general concensus in the house that I'm skating about on thin, thin ice and apparently the old man's been ever so lenient so far. They're all waiting for me to screw-up even more so or come of age and have the guy properly rip into me.
Maybe that's why Dougie's been more passive with me lately, because he already suspects that I'm getting it on the side. Screw them all. If Carrie can't wait for me to rue the day of my eighteenth birthday and Doug loves me out of pity because he knows the daily beatings are a bit much, it reinforces my belief that I am Milkman's Son. I've never belonged. Not in my family, not with my friends. I just... I want something good to come along, getting out of the house is start one. Kristy Livingstone is part two.
Later.