Letter to Stories

Dear Stories,

I wish you never came into my life. You’re demeaning, you’re manipulative, you’re addictive, and you’re depressing. You make me want more of you and you make me want to create you myself, and yet you never satisfy me. You tell me you can be found everywhere and in everyone, and yet you always look the same. You can wear different clothes or put on an accent, but you’re still the same. You’re a jackass.

You’re the only reason I care about sports, the only reason I care about politics, and sometimes the only reason I care about my own family. Sometimes I change my life to make you more interesting. Make you what I want. But I can never change you as much as I want. You take me out of reality in a way I never asked for. You take the spotlight away from reality in documentaries that are meant to shed light on something important, but you’re often too selfish to care. You make me mad, you make me cry, and sometimes you make me feel completely lost, hopeless, and alone.


I admit you’re not always the worst. You give me hope. You help me understand life from different perspectives. You make me laugh. You help allow me to empathize with others. You teach me and you inform me. You inspire me. And for that I thank you.
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Thank you, Stories.