I shouldn't feel like I'm an idiot because technically, I'm a genius. I'm right 95 percent of the time. The other five percent? I guess that the other five percent is the category I fall into right now. How can I not understand my own feelings? I mean, puking Pluto! I have an IQ of 210, a hovercraft, a working time box (Now who's your perspicacious genius, Strych, old bean?), and a mechanical dog that can reassemble after a main core implosion!
I'm Jimmy Neutron! There's nothing I can't do, right? Right! I can even fly- I have a jetpack. I can speak a few new languages with the help of my latest invention which arranges neuron cells and feeds you knowledge via synapses through a harmless minor electric shock of 110 volts.
"What's that Goddard?" *continues writing*
Okay, so maybe it wasn't exactly harmless
but Sheen does love electrical experiments, and I can fix the bugs as fast as you can say "Einstein's theory of Relativity." Comprenez- vous? That's French for Do you understand?
Of course you understand. You understand exactly how intellectually gifted I am. You recognize my cranial capacity and put in double the effort to outdo it. Alas! You tend to fixate on the less
developed facets of my being. You think I'm short and puny. You notice and point out my unfortunate lack of athletic skill. You think I like to show off my inventions because I want to prove I'm a genius. Statistically speaking, that would be a waste of time, since it's already been proven. I could even show you the equations I use to calculate my mental perspicacity, although I doubt you'd be able to discern the results with the kind of keenness only someone like me could ever dream of possessing.
You also think I'm unattractive because of my admittedly out of date hairdo. I can't give that up! It's my trademark, even villains like Goobot and Calamitous know me as the boy with not only a huge brain, but the one with the fudge shaped hair! It would be as preposterous as giving up my atom insignia, which is another one of your issues with me. You berate me for stamping my mark all over everything. Then you tell me I simply create some new crazy explosive invention, only to slap the title "Neutronic so and so", or "Neutronic fill-in-the-blankizer" on it. Then, according to your diction, I proceed to almost kill everyone in Retroville with it.
Of course, another topic of interest for you is my supposed grandstanding and the solo act you claim I put up so well. You never fail to remind me that if you and the others (but mostly you!) hadn't whipped my butt into shape by, in your words, "Reinforcing the apparently foreign term of teamwork" into my overly huge skull, we would have lost Earth.
Let's not even get onto the topic of my affections. I call her a woman, you call her a boring cotton-headed rainbow princess. I call her mature and sophisticated, you call her a cold- erm, I won't mention the word. You're always telling me you think she looks idiotic and that I lose my dignity around her. That is NOT true Vortex. Just because I find Betty Quinlan to be a gorgeous, intoxicating, mesmerizing member of the female gender, it does not mean I lose my self-respect. Thank you for the concern, but I still hold myself in the highest of regards whether or not I'm around her.
Well, all I'll say about it other than that, is that at least her teeth are aligned. They do not protrude awkwardly. I like women
err..girls, to have nice teeth.
You, on the other hand, seem to have an acquired taste for bucktoothed men. It's kind of demeaning how someone like you can turn into a simpering female over some rich ass like Eustace or drool over a dork like Timmy Turner, who wishes everything into existence. Perhaps he wished your affection for him into existence. That's what I'd like to think, for your sake.
However, the sooner, I rid myself of such an illusion, the better. I remember Jorgen (the huge fairy whose body fused with Calmitous's, if you needed a mental recall, although that description comes as more of a visual recall, unfortunately!) and his rules. Love can't be wished for. So I have no option but to believe you truly fell for the stupidity that Turner so brilliantly exudes. And then, there's Nick. Granted, he's cool, but watching you lust after Funk Master "Nicky-Nick" is actually painful. I can't believe I'm saying this, but, you deserve better, Cindy.
I mean, none of those guys can create camp counsellor holograms, build intergalactic space transport, or recite the periodic table backwards and forwards in their sleep. (Don't forget the fact that I'm one of the few people in the world who can do algebra in Latin!)
But the truth is, I digress. I didn't start this to brag about my superiority or my obvious dislike for Turner or to tell you exactly how beautiful Betty Quinlan looks coming down the hallway in that enchanting pink dress. No, believe it or not, I have an ulterior motive., although thus far, as you can probably tell, for once, I've been quite unsuccessful with getting my point across.
I have trouble saying this, so read carefully. It's like my brain refuses to accept it. It rejects the very possibility yet recognizes it as the only logical solution to my quandary.
Logical? Pah! It's about as far from logical as I will ever get, but this stray from reason comes without warning or cause. But I know there must be a cause, all reactions have equal and opposite reactions. I must determine a cause. I've felt it, so I know it's there.
So what is the cause? I've eliminated every possibility except one. I even went as far as to check if something changed my brain when we both switched brains and Sheen and Libby and Carl had to sort our respective memories.
I, James Isaac Neutron, love you, Cindy Vortex.
There, I said it.
It seems irrational for a scientist like me to feel this way. It's simultaneously terrifying, yet exciting. Love isn't made of numbers, and unfortunately, I can't reduce what I feel into numbers (believe me, I've tried!).
I do love people. I love my parents and my friends and, recently, I discovered I love you. But what I feel for you is different from what I feel about the others I love. It's an unexplainable phenomenon.
You get under my skin but I love the grating sound of your voice calling my last name. I love having your warm breath on my cheek when we're arguing and get in each other's faces. I love the way you greet me with the endearing title of "Nerdtron."
I love the way your fingers feel in mine when I work up the courage to hold your hand. I love your idiotic pants although I wonder why you can't just wear full ones (My ankles practically froze to death in those things while I was you!), and I love your idiotic blonde bang that falls across your face all the time. I love you stupid bouncy ponytail and the way you look when you're laughing with Libby.
I love the way you can take on anyone and stand your ground fearlessly. I love the way you challenge me and never give up at trying to beat me at every damn thing. You have a sharp mind, an intellect only second to my enormous knowledge pool. I think you're more gorgeous or intoxicating than Betty Quinlan will ever be. You're basically like me- the full package.
So what do you say, Cindy?
We'd make quite the team, you and I.
PS: I'd highly appreciate if you didn't pound my brains out after reading this
I kind of require it to continue pioneering new technology. Especially since this doesn't exactly suffice as a Christmas present.
Cindy smiled. "You were always too cocky for your own good, Neutron." She set the letter on the table, remembering the Christmas she'd received it on all those years ago.
"Hey, it worked." He shrugged.
"Oh and I take it you are aware that your last name is Neutron too, right?" He sniggered.
"Neutron-Vortex." She corrected. "And of course I know! We've been married for three years now."
He slid closer to her on the sofa. "Merry Christmas, Cindy."
Then he pulled her into a hug and she kissed his cheek.
"Merry Christmas, Jimmy." She whispered.