Letters to No one: As if I cared

Dear anyone,

My therapist wants me to describe you. 
The reader of this literary confusion- of- an- experiment I have not found an identity for yet.

As if I cared about you, or what you look like.

 I am using you to soothe the nothingness of this life I do nothing but recreate.

Must we always be nice to people? Be positive, and send them good vibes whilst secretly wishing they would drown in their bitterness?

As if I cared if you are educated, intellectual, a pervert, or as lost as yours truly.
But I need you, you see. I do.

If you are a man, I wish you to be a real one. The kind who pays the bills without rolling your eyes. Holds your lover's hand protectively. Stands by her when she loses the ability to hide behind the facade of strength.

And if you are not, Well, until this experiment is as successful as I wish it to be, I shall pretend not to notice.

Then, I will send you off to my therapist.

If you are a woman, oh! how I wish you would stop pretending to be a man. Darling, what is so wrong with being a woman? feminine. smelling of roses and musk and delicate treasures. Trembling with vulnerability, and allowing life to guide you and myself anywhere it wishes.

You could be young and arrogant and rude for all I care. And I don't, because I know that you will become my literary feast, and I will laugh at your ignorance through my words. You will become a character in my short stories. But I have to pay the price of your anger, and spiteful looks when that happens.
And it will.

You could be old and bitter. Walking steadily towards the end, reading hundreds of books in the hope of living through the beginnings of stories we both know you will never live again.

I have a feeling you could be miserly. Hoarding your money because you are afraid to give.

That's alright.
I will give for both of us.
That is what I have done all my life.

But, don't look shocked if I turn you into a mockery in my short stories.
For, it is only there, that your nothingness becomes a reflection of the history I am documenting. Only there do I give meaning to your insignificance.

You could laugh haughtily at my ability to love life, pretending to come down from your mighty tower of intellect to meet me where I so happily stand.
Midst freshly scented linen, on balconies filled with my spoilt dogs' stool, and my bird henry's unharmonious whistles.

And my therapist wishes me to describe you.
As if I cared one bit about you.
you are simply an excuse for my veins to express their anger, filth, greed, wanton desires, through you.

But until this small literary experiment succeeds, I shall treat you courteously.
Later on, will tell you exactly what I think about you.

And oh! so very kindly, with all the positive vibes I can puzzle out of my narrowing patience, whisper my therapist's name in your deaf ear.