so I’m reading Alexander Hamilton’s letters because that’s the sort of thing I do for funsies and he is ABSOLUTELY the guy who FLIPS HIS SHIT when you don’t text him back
like, historically, is what I am saying here
I present Exhibit A, this letter to Laurens, FIRST FUCKING PARAGRAPH:
I acknowlege but one letter from you, since you left us, of the 14th of July which just arrived in time to appease a violent conflict between my friendship and my pride. I have written you five or six letters since you left Philadelphia and I should have written you more had you made proper return.
“Bro, I texted you like FIVE OR SIX TIMES and you didn’t send SHIT.”
But like a jealous lover, when I thought you slighted my caresses, my affection was alarmed and my vanity piqued. I had almost resolved to lavish no more of them upon you and to reject you as an inconstant and an ungrateful ——.
Yes, that is Hamilton comparing his letters to Laurens to sex. In a totes str8 way. Also, those two lines were a deliberate blank, which means that they are absolutely censoring a swear. I’ll pause to let you imagine Hamilton sitting over the paper, quill in hand, thinking, “Well, I could use ‘asshole’ or ‘motherfucker’… no, I’ll just leave it blank so he can fill it in himself. LIKE INSULT MADLIBS.”
But you have now disarmed my resentment and by a single mark of attention made up the quarrel. You must at least allow me a large stock of good nature.
“But then you sent me one letter and I was like, ‘Aww, I can’t stay mad at you.’”
Oh, but that’s just Laurens, you say. NO SIR. THIS IS EQUAL OPPORTUNITY TEXT-DEMANDING. I present Exhibit B in my case, this letter from Hamilton to Eliza:
It is an age my dearest since I have received a letter from you; the post is arrived and not a line.
“WHY DIDN’T YOU TEXT ME BACK?”
I know not to what to impute your silence; so it is I am alarmed with an apprehension of your being ill. Sometimes I suspect a [????] of your letters. Sometimes my anxiety accuses you of negligence but I chide myself whenever it does.
Oh, honey. I mean, disease was definitely An Actual Thing that Hamilton would have been afraid of (not just because of his backstory but as a common issue in colonial America), but seriously, dude doesn’t get any letters and immediately thinks the worst.
And then, after like a whole paragraph of talking about how much he needs her letters and how he sends her letters even though he’s so busy and blah blah blah:
Pardon me my lovely girl for any thing I may have said that has the remotest semblance of complaining. If you knew my heart thoroughly you would see it so full of tenderness for you that you would not only pardon, but you would even love my weaknesses.
“I’m sorry, I’m just venting, I just really need you to text me back.”
For god’s sake My Dear Betsey try to write me oftener and give me the picture of your heart in all its varieties of light and shade. Tell me whether it feels the same for me or did when we were together, or whether what seemed to be love was nothing more than a generous sympathy. The possibility of this frequently torments me.
This is Alexander Hamilton writing to his fiancée asking if she actually likes him or if she’s just being nice to him. Alexander Hamilton is literally this post:
*nudges husband awake at 4 AM*
me: do you like me
him: I MARRIED YOU
me: yes but did you marry me as a friend, or like, a wife? unclear
Alexander Hamilton: anxious & in need of constant validation and attention
