when a guy receives a letter

Well, this is odd. But it fit’s the script. Irony I swear. Every guy gets a letter, and you were destined to be one of them.
"I remember when I first saw you, In Ms. aida’s. I though that you had to be an adult or a senior. Lordy! I don’t know how to write this to you, you aren’t like the others, and I cant treat you like the others, because you’ll never be like the others. You do something to me, you make me happy. You make me wonder. You make me cry. You make me inspired. You make me tired. You make me jealous. You make me hungry. You make me confused. you are so multi faceted! It amazes me. I hate feeling like this, at your mercy, but you stole a part of my heart, and won’t give it back. I cant function properly without it. I hate the most that I always think of you. Anything can remind me of you, something you said or did. . .It hurts though, real bad. I know that eventually I’ll get over you, but I almost don’t want to. I want to keep liking you, to have a reason to go to school, and look nice. A reason to be happy, and an excuse for taking the long way to class. I don’t know what you do to make me want to tell you everything, make me want to do your bidding, like a puppy. I hate that you have such a hold on me, that when I sit in that chair in my grandparents living room, I always see you twirling me around, as more than just a friend. I feel the scene of you throwing me against a locker in the hallway and surprising me with a fierce kiss. I know it’ll never happen, but all girls have dreams. . .right? I know a lot of people say I should just let you go, stop putting myself through such misery. But I’m an artist, Its what I do. So I’ll keep hearing my heart rip and tear, and I’ll never do anything about tit. Gawd, I’m sprung. I sit and listen to you over the announcements, you know, when you do them. I love your voice. Just hearing the emotion in it. Your voice conducts emotion like metal conducts electricity. Its dorky, I know, but I’m a dork, with a neon pink sign in my left window, right? Every time I look at you, I see something that stabs my heart, like your hand, and I imagine it coupled with mine, or brushing back flyaways, or wrapped around my waist. I may never get over you, but at least I can try. I just want a chance. TO kiss you, wake up beside you, ride rides with you, be held by you, Cheer you on at games, wink at you from across rooms, touch you, be with you. Is that so much to ask? I guess so. You have horrible handwriting. This is what I’m talking about. I just ran into my room, dug out a box of notes, and searched frantically for that one from malays I about Kimi. Just to see your handwriting. I don’t know what to do about me liking you, which is an inadequate word. Infatuation would be much better, really, not love though. Not love. I won’t let myself go that far. So I’m playing this mental game. I keep doing stuff to try not to like you, I say you’re ugly, you’re immature, You hurt Anis, you hurt me. But as soon as you smile, and your deep brown eyes scrunch up like that, it all melts away, and I fall for you all over again. And I fall hard. So. Now, I’m trying to fall for someone else. Anyone else. So I can try to get over you, with your effortless humour, position on the Varsity team, soft dark hair, dramatic talent, you seem so perfect . . . I can’t compete with perfect. I don’t know what our future holds, but its gonna be big. I cant wait. I bet you cant either. Ally.