I certainly hope that whomsoever has deigned to read this, my latest epistolary opus, perceives the irony inherent in the above salutation, because I know that it is more than likely that exactly no one, let alone the whole of society, will peruse this text, drafted by moi, Matilda Darling, burgeoning auteur and scientist; I write in the dark, for the dark, like the draftsmen of the caves of Lascaux, my work unacknowledged, my voice unheard. Still, the very act of unburdening myself, of removing my thoughts and worries and fears and complaints and arguments with the world from the claustrophobic room of my own mind to the wide-open prairie of the page, the weight on my shoulders coursing down through my fingertips to drain from the weary spigot of my ballpoint pen, is a luxury par excellence.
But, on the off chance that someone has been keeping up with these letters to no one—I have begun, in fact, to think of my body of work as a sort of Waiting for Godot for the teenage set—I bring you, loyal reader, the final installment of my misadventures in beautification, the outset of which I had described in my last letter. My uncle and his girlfriend Shoshanna had spent the week at our house, and on their last night here, Shoshanna deemed it necessary that she give me a makeover. How she talked me into participating in such a vile activity, and why I acquiesced to her coercion, escape me as the event recedes in time; I wonder now not why I did it before but rather how I feel about the after. I pride myself on my swiftness of mind, my ability to quickly and rationally come down on the correct side of a debate, yet I still cannot, weeks later, make up my mind as to whether or not I liked the way Shoshanna made me look.