Dear Stranger,
I was thinking about you today. More like I was questioning why exactly I keep writing these letters to you and if that makes me crazy, but whatevs. Nevertheless, I was thinking of you, my supposedly dashing knight with strong enough arms to carry me to the hospital. I said 'supposedly' because I have no idea what you look like. I was slipping in and out of consciousness that day. Your ID wasn't in your wallet (which I found in the jacket that you wrapped around me) either since you probably needed to show it to somebody. So yeah, no idea who you are or what you look like. I'll admit that I kinda do want to know, but having a mysterious pen pal sounds cool doesn't it? I like writing these letters to you. They distract me, even if it's only for a little while. And since my treatment will be lasting a long time…well, you won't mind if I do this for years, would you? Though you could get tired of them and start burning them to itty bitty ashes and I would never know. I hope you don't though.
Since I don't know anything about you, I figured I could tell you a little about me: As you know, my name is Serena and I'm seventeen. I love all things chocolate. Except for chocolate covered raisins, I just don't like them. Bleh. I like bunnies. I like to paint. When I'm really bored I sometimes dress my cat up in doll clothes that I have from when I was little. She hates it (I've got a few scars to prove it) but my poor kitty still seems to love me anyway. My dad isn't actually my biological dad; my mom got pregnant by her boyfriend who left her once he found out. My parents married when I was four, so it makes no difference to me. I don't have any interest in ever meeting my real dad either. He was a major jerk from what my mom told me. The stuff with my boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend now—I'm not all that upset about it. I was actually thinking about breaking up with him myself because he had gotten a little aggressive about pressuring me into certain things…you know, like the physical aspect of a relationship. Since my mom had given into her old jerk of a boyfriend and gotten pregnant, I'm adamant (I know, big word for me. I've been talking to Darien too much) about not making the same mistake. I had explained to my boyfriend that I wanted to wait until I was married. I guess he didn't really understand like he told me he did. I think that's enough about me. Now what to do…not much to do…nothing to do in a hospital.
Bored.
Bored. Bored bored bored bordedly boredly bored. Boreeeeeeeeeeeeddddd. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored.
*There are multiple drawings of animals and flowers and tic-tac-toe games that she apparently played with herself.*
Whoops, just realized this is your letter and not my drawing pad…
Dying of utter boredom,
Serena