Short Letter to Miss Austen

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife. However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters." -(Ch. 1) Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen.

Not that I'm interested in marriage, dear Miss Austen, but...I'll leave out that detail [which almost obliterates your thought-for that I am truly sorry], and simply state that, "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a heart [?], must be in want of a partner of crimes." The problem with my statement, which is not as obvious as the problem with yours [quite frankly], is that...I have found out, Miss Austen, that men who are in possession of this said "♥" tend to gravitate toward oblivion. That is to say, Miss Austen, that I never get them; in your own terms, they are never "my rightful property." No...my "property" usually consists of egotistical narcissists, depraved depressives, and volatile musicians [which, I must admit, at times seems worth it, due to the music].

So, you see Miss Austen: this is why we have never gotten along.
Whereas you believe that, in the end, love will somehow conquer all and make way for wonderful and fruitful ventures, I wallow in sunless lands and somehow wish I knew not of these expectations that excite me so. Perhaps I could be happy then; perhaps if I had nothing to look forward-nothing at all-I would stop wishing upon fire.

Once again, the world has crumbled and there's only rocks and that gut-wrenching breeze. As much as it is my home, I should forget the way to it once in a while. Trust me, Miss Austen, it does infuriate me that I can sense the stairs beneath my feet tremble, as it all falls down-terribly so, for I am helpless regarding their ruins.

Image by Kevin H. via Flickr

It's funny, however, that through all the years I've spent trying to figure this out, it is only now that I finally do. Funny, too, that in understanding it, I must regretfully acknowledge that this fact does little for my own vindication.

How is this meant to exalt me if I am not granted the minimum-at least one speck of forgotten cosmic waste?

And so, quite honestly Miss Austen, I cannot stand you, mostly because I'm not one of your fixer-upper friends.
In any case, I guess all is well with that, for in knowing me, your reputation would be in shambles: I would have been the one that somehow managed to be the serpent, living in a castle by the sea.