Dear Mimi

January 5th 

Dear Mimi,

I don’t really know how to start this. I hardly ever write letters, especially to old ladies who aren’t even going to read it. You're, what, a hundred years old? I’m fourteen, if you remember. I bet your old eyes are glazing over these small words, wondering what it says. Sorry, Mimi. You'll be getting a lot of letters. Writing these letters is supposed to be some kind of therapy for me. I don’t think this’ll work, anyway. Instead of writing in a journal, I’ll be writing one-way notes to you, my great-grandma, for a while. 

My life is a mess. I mean, I have my friend Kaymi—I think you’ve met her once or twice. You know, black hair, dark eyes, red lips? I also have my doggy, Pepper, and a nice enough family. But I don’t feel so good. Which is why I started visiting counselors. I don’t know, I’m just really sad and mopey.

Do you remember me, Mimi? I’m your great-granddaughter, Corinna. I have really long, really wild black hair. I hide behind it a lot. I have olive skin and emerald green eyes, and I always wear sweatpants plus a hoodie. That’s the kind of loose clothes I can relax in. 

School’s annoying. It's hard. Too much homework. Oh, and there’s too many groups. You know, popular girls, popular boys, nerds, normal kids, gloomy teens like me…ugh. Ugh. Ugh. My teachers are all weird. 1st period, math, is Mrs. Hendrix, this old bat who has nasty breath and an even nastier attitude. Then there’s Mr. Sallow, reading, who’s maybe forty and just reads at his desk all day. 3rd period is the writing teacher, Meena. She’s the best—she's really young and pretty and lets us call her by her first name. Anyways, so on and so forth.

Expect a lot of letters. Often. I’m required to write and send em’ a lot. They won’t be that uplifting, so prepare yourself—this is my ‘therapy’. Although you won’t be reading these. You never even check your mail, right? So I take back what I said earlier with you skimming these blocks of words.

Bye, Mimi!

~ Corinna 

January 26th

Dear Mimi,

I was just wondering—why do people always say ‘dear’? ‘Dear’ is a weird word. I mean, there’s ‘deer’, and it’s like the naming guy ran out of ideas so he added an ‘a’. And why do we say it when writing letters, anyway? Saying ‘dear __’ basically means you—not YOU, you; anybody—a person who has bad spelling, is addressing an elder deer. Like, ‘The Prestigious Deer Rosalee’. And you have bad spelling because you write ‘dear’. See, Mimi, this is the kind of weird thing that runs through my mind.

Although for my thoughts, that’s pretty peppy. Well, it’s not peppy, but it’s not more sad and depressing than most young teens’ thoughts would be. Like, I made up a twisted joke at recess. It goes like this: ‘Give a man a match and he’ll be warm for a few hours. Light a man on fire and he’ll be warm for the rest of his life.’ Do you get it? It’s the kind of joke you need a second to process, then you frown, or crack a smile THEN frown.

Lots of my thoughts are frown-worthy.

You know what expression that joke is based off of, right? It’s that ‘give a man a fish’ one. I find it sooo stupid all these wise expressions involve MEN. Like man’s best friend—what, like girls can’t love dogs more than their own mothers? Oh, and the most stupid of all: all men created equal. YEAH, DUH. But what about women? Never said all PEOPLE, eh? It’s stupid. Bloody stupid. I hate sexist people. Ever heard of girl power, dumbo?

But enough about that.

My life is a mess.

Okay, I know I said that last message. But it’s true. You know how sometimes, you get a burst of happiness? Like you’ll make a difference in the world? It happens when you’re young, anyway. I doubt people a century old get that feeling. I used to get it now and then. I’m a fairly creative person—I was, anyway. I’d get really happy then paint a picture, feeling like I would be in history books.

It’s not just that I never get that feeling anymore. It’s just the opposite. I get this feeling of ugh. Life is pointless. You’re alive, then you die. Nothing is permanent. What’s the point? Nothing.

Life. Is. Pointless. 

That feeling often strikes when I’m lying in bed. It’s ten P.M., so I climb up my ladder and curl under the warm covers of my top bunk. Then I get this flash of…truth. I’m lying here in a bed some factory manufactured. In a world of seven billion humans. Empires. Buildings and shops and roads and cars. It’s all fake. Fake. Fake.

I can’t describe the feelings. But it's powerful. And not all bad. No, this kind of feeling is enlightening. It makes me fill up with…nothing, actually. It hollows me out. Makes me wonder why I’m here. On Earth. Makes me think about what humans have become.  

Some people say “We’re not destroying the Earth. We’re destroying ourselves. When humans peeter out, the world will regrow.” True, I guess. But for now, everything is dying. We’re dying, and taking thousands of species down with us. Anytime this thought occurs to people, they’ll shrug it off. Insist they’re different. Think about all the good they’ve caused.

Lies. Lies. Lies.

Sure, there are a couple of good people. Pure people. People who devote themselves to others. But in reality, most of us consider ourselves good as long as we don’t do any harm.

Ha.

As we live, we take air, food, resources. Did you know that annually, the whole world produces over two billion metric tons of solid waste? We’re destroying this world. A couple of us are good, but there’s no neutral. Just because you don’t do anything doesn’t make you good—it makes you the same as many others. But. We produce trash and kill animals indirectly. So no, we’re not neutral.

What I’m getting at is there are a few good people. But despite those people, the human race as a whole is moving forward, causing death, disease, and destruction wherever they go.

 Those are the kind of deep thoughts that strike me.

And those kinds of thoughts are weighing me down inside.

Goodbye, Mimi.

~Corinna 

February 14th

Dear Mimi,

Two weeks since my last letter, okay. 

Yesterday, Kaymi invited me over for a sleepover. We made slime and went to the pool, then played truth-or-dare and Would You Rather? until midnight. It was fun, and we made pancakes in the morning.

Truth-or-dare went something like this:

“Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” I said, because truths end up with people staring at me like I’m psychotic. Which I am. 

“Hmm...call a random contact just to say you’re busy. Then hang up!” Kaymi giggled. “It’ll be hilarious.”

“M’kay,” I said.

I called and dissed my study partner, Aaron.

“Truth or dare?” I asked Kaymi.

“Dare! Duh.”

“Hmmm…can I do a dare for the future?” Kaymi squinted at me so I clarified, “Like, put plain yogurt in a mayonnaise jar and walk around the mall eating it.”

“Yesssss!” Kaymi cheered.

When we moved on to Would You Rather? stuff got interesting. Kaymi is a…fun friend. She’s sassy and has a dark sense of humor. She's pretty much the only person who can survive me—our darkness builds off each other, just, she’s funny and I’m gloomy. As Kaymi says, I put the ‘hot’ is ‘psychotic’. Kaymi more of puts the ‘sass’ in ‘assassin’. She’s super strong and athletic, and amazing at what she called Gymrate. Basically karate mixed with gymnastics, to produce some sort of ninja moves that makes everybody intimidated by her.

“Would you rather…” I mused, “get bitten by five thousand mosquitos at once, or by a shark one time?”

Kaymi laughs. “Shark, I guess. And dang, Corinna, that was dark.” She smiled mischievously. “But I can match that. Hmmm…would you rather give yourself emergency appendectomy with nail clippers, or eye surgery with a scalpel and a fun-house mirror?”

I blinked. “How do you come up with this stuff?”

So on and so forth. 

I’m writing this letter as Mom is driving me home. It’s Sunday, which means school tomorrow. Ugh. Bye, I guess.

~Corinna

February 15th

Dear Mimi,

Another letter already, huh? It’s Monday, and I just got out of school. Yesterday and the day before were fun with Kaymi, which was good, because today was dreadful. First of all, it’s that kind of sucky cold some winter days are—when there’s no snow or anything, just a hard sky, bare trees, and ice-cold asphalt. It was below freezing, definitely, and because God seems to hate me….

I forgot my coat.

Kaymi lent me hers, which earned her a hole punch on her Leaf. Yeah, there’s this new activity we’re doing in seventh period: Tree of Giving. Now, there’s this tree made of paper up on the wall. There are these laminated leaves with Velcro, and everybody has a leaf with their name on it. Any acts of kindness mean a hole punch, and you’re trying to get as many hole punches as possible.

Sounds weird, right? What kind of class would do that? Well, the grade’s last period is TA, or Teacher Advisory. A group of ten or so kids ‘form a close bond with their TA, for school and emotionally’. What a load of rubbish (ha! That’s a British insult, right?). Some people are really close with Cassandra (we call our TAs by their first name), but I have a steel gate guarding my emotions. Cass’s the one who told my parents to start writing you these letters, because I wouldn’t open up around her.

Well, it’s not like there’s not much to say. I have depressing thoughts that I've said in this letter. ‘Spilled’, I guess, though it’s not really a secret. I just don’t like telling my thoughts to anybody because they’re deep and weird.

Who wants to be told human race is suckage, and we cause —and I quote myself—‘death, disease, and destruction’ wherever we go?

Not any sane being.

~Corinna 

March 1st

Dear Mimi,

It’s been a while since I last wrote. I don’t really want to write, but I’m here to talk about what I said a couple letters ago. About the thoughts I get in my bunk bed at night.

I’m powerless.

Nothing I do matters. Nothing at all.

Here’s the thing: they say the universe is always expanding. Hard to wrap your mind around that, am I right? Anyways, the universe is always so vast and large that even if we could explore deep space, we never could see it all.

The universe gets bigger, faster than we can—could—explore it. So, in a sense, outer space is virtually infinite. There’s no place it stops.

I’m not saying this for a science lesson. I’m saying in all that space, in all that fabric of time, there are gazillions of planets and stars and celestial bodies.

All. That. Space.

So me, puny little me, is a grain of sand on a beach.

No. More like a 10000000000000000000000000000000000th of sand on a beach the size of the ocean. 

I. Don’t. Matter.

Even if we shrink our views to Earth, there’s seven billion people. I’m one in seven billion, but not in an uplifting way. No, I’m not unique. I’m small and insignificant.

I can’t make a difference.

Powerless.   

~Corinna

April 1st

Dear Mimi,

It’s been a month since my last letter. Officially spring! The birds are singing and the flowers are growing, and the sky is a sapphire blue.

And...I don’t really like spring.

I mean, it’s so humid! I can’t even deal with the merciless heat of summer. But humidity? 

No. Just…no.

It’s like I’m walking through a thin block of water. All these drops of liquid clinging on me...it makes me hot and stinky and wet. I have to take a shower every day in the spring in summer because of how sweaty I get, and—ugh.

I’m trying to find a new hobby. I tried out biking earlier today, and it’s not bad. Pedaling full speed is like I’m generating my own wind. Bye-bye, humidity!

I biked for, like, ten miles today. It felt good to get out if the house.

Buuut now I’m sore. And I don’t like biking clothes. Plus, I get sweaty on a bike anyway. I can outrun (-bike?) the humidity, but I can’t outrun the armpit stink.

I don’t think biking’s my thing.

Maybe I’ll try knitting. Seems peaceful.

~Corinna 

April 20th

Dang, Mimi, knitting is not for me.

Oops, I just realized I started this message with no ‘dear Mimi’. Whatever. I still said your name, and dear is a stupid word so—you know, nevermind. You’re not reading these letters anyway.

Forget that whole paragraph.

Anyways, knitting isn’t great. It’s boring. Not soothing and peaceful, but boring. Besides, it leaves too much room for my mind to wander.

I was just starting to think I was getting more cheerful, when I began my scarf and thought of this ‘joke’: “My grief counselor died the other day. I’m not even sad because he was so good at his job.” That’s messed-up.

Seems typical I thought of it.

I’m going to try gymnastics. Kaymi likes it, so I’ll give it a shot.

~Corinna 

May 10th

Dear Mimi,

Gymnastics sucks.

It’s just jumping around, right? Shouldn’t be that hard?

Think again, great-grandma.

The people on TV are these slim athletes who have literally twisted their bodies into a form where they twist their bodies. Springing backwards isn’t right. Doing a backbend? Even worse.

I got hurt during warm-up.

I got hurt doing the main class.

I got hurt doing ‘cool off’.

And worse? Dad paid for five classes, and I have to attend all of them.

About twisting bodies: another thought.

When humans walk barefoot, you stroll toes first. People will argue with that, but that’s our natural stance. Mostly we just place our foot down flat, but often you can see how the top of our foot touch down first.

When we walk with shoes on, we do heel-first. It’s unnatural but the plastic and fabric we call shoes makes us do it. Weird, right? Let’s add to the list: humans cause the three Ds, plus change to how we walk.

What’s next? How we breathe?

I now realize how painstakingly true that is. Do you hold your breath when you walk past busses that are on? All those fumes are nasty. I bet in 500 years, if we haven’t died off, we’ll literally need masks to filter the air.

Here’s another thought: stand barefoot on your tiptoes. Steady. It’s amazing, right? All those tiny foot bones, held together by your skin, hold up the support of hundreds of pounds.

I bet in a while we won’t be able to do it.

I don’t know, I just do.

Have I mentioned the human race sucks?

~Corinna 

May 23rd

Dear Mimi,

I’ve found a hobby!

Writing!

Writing is amazing. It lets me pour all of my feelings into words. I can create places and people, and reading is equally great.

Writing and reading, I can venture into new worlds.

Happy places.

It’s amazing.

I’m not great at writing, but maybe I’ll finally start paying attention to Meena. I’ll get better, and you know what?

I’m starting a novel!

Can you believe that? I, Corinna, am writing a book!

Wish me luck, Mimi!

~Corinna 

June 1st

Dear Mimi,

I WANT TO KILL CASSANDRA!

She just said that all these letters I’ve sent go to her.

I was mixed between being mad and sad.

I don’t want her reading these letters!

When I conveyed those emotions, she said she’d lied. All these letters go straight to your mailbox. She just wanted to see if I cared.

I did.

She says her work is done. I guess I’ve been telling you, Mimi, stuff I would never have told her. Cass says that’s the whole point—to find somebody to talk freely to.

And you’re that person.

I want to say one more thing. All those months ago I write a letter about how I’m powerless in this huge universe. Even on Earth, Corinna Fairmont, is one puny teenager in seven billion.

But I’ve been thinking.

And not my normal kind of thinking.

Happy thinking.

Because I think of it as I’m puny, but all seven billions people are powerful. I’m small in something big. 

But, you know?

Seven billion people is made up of seven billion individual beings.

‘Big’ is made up of lots of small.

While taking away one person—like, me—from all those billions doesn’t seem that much, if you do it over and over again, taking billions of Corinnas away, that’s a drastic difference.

I guess everybody has power.

A little bit, but power. 

And it all adds up.

Another thing I said in the beginning: life is pointless. Everything is temporary. All of that is still true, but in a different way. Life is pointless, but that just lets us carve out our own meaning. Some people try to complete stuff that lands them in history books. Others want to create things people will enjoy. But all of us try to have fun,

That’s the meaning. Having a good time.

After these six months, I, one small but powerful person in seven billion, have changed writing to you. It’s been…good. I feel happier. Since starting writing, I’ve gotten those bursts of happiness. I’m going to write a novel that people will read for centuries.

So thank you, Mimi.

Thank you for listening.

~Corinna