xxxxxxxxxx,
You asked me to read it all, I ask the same. If you have any questions, please dial xxx-xxx-xxxxx.
If you’re looking for a simpering Nancy-boy or equivalent breed of kiss-girl’s-ass dude, you’re looking at the wrong person. You’re not going to get it here. All you have to do is look at my history and talk to a couple of friends of mine to realize that I don’t succumb to that groveling bullshit. I don’t play by the rules that a gaggle of girls make up around the sewing circle. I go my own way, all else be damned. I trust in myself to win in the long run because I see through the stupid person/and or people who think they can pull the wool over my eyes. It’s an almost enchanting feeling knowing the methodology behind someone else’s actions. Especially when they creep through the sewers of emotion thinking they’re rising above said substance.
You admit to having personal problems. Welcome to the club of 20,000,000,000 of us. When will you ever learn that, no matter how hard you try, the world won’t revolve around you? Do you think you’re the only one with anxiety? Is that why you’re appalled that anyone would dare raise your level of anxiety? You do it to me, I do it right back. I don’t care. It happens to all of us every day. If you want to deal with it, love me back. I’ll love you back.
That e-mail you sent 8:00 last night did nothing but drive home my original point. You find fault in everything but yourself. Even when you do admit being a bitch, it doesn’t come without an itemized list of faults that don’t have much street cred other than the fact that they made you have a pity party for yourself. You’re 30-whatever going on 12. So am I, but I take it out on PlayStation, not humans. Doesn’t say much for me, but there is less violence in the world for it, psychologically and physically. (But you are probably more mature than me.)
I’ve spent the past 6 months apologizing for you lying to me. For my own sanity, I’ve decided that it’s no longer ok for people to lie to me. Simple as that. You’re going to have to come up with a different strategy for me to be close to you in your life. I don’t want to be friends. I want to fuck. I want to fuck like the lovers we were. If that’s out of the cards today, don’t count on it being in the cards tomorrow. Simple as that. I’ll knock on the next door down. You think you’re going to find the Ft. Worth love again? One night in the distant future you will be walking back toward a bed and exhale. You will never inhale that dizzying, warm shiver of rush of love again. We had it. You prefer pain and angst to joy and celebration. That’s the difference between us. That’s so heartbreaking.
Love is the rush we had leading up to that trip. Love was that horrible airport hotel room and the awful room service. Not to mention our fun adventure of circling the airport trying to find our hotel. I don’t think I ever loved you more than I did during that 30 minutes of driving in a circle. I saw you keeping your cool. I loved that. We could have driven to Canada and back and I would have been warm and fuzzy about you. It was fun and we laughed.
Love is breaking glasses full of ice next to a bed.
Love is lying in a bed soaked in sweat and cum with the air conditioner blasting on us.
Love is watching a hurricane together—twice—and being confused at why our brothers and sisters are suffering.
Love is getting fired together, and telling your grandchildren about it.
Love is anything that might happen tomorrow.
I’m bad. You’re bad. Big deal. We were good together first.
Happy Birthday xxxxxxxx, work on your curve ball xxxxxxxx.
Remember xxxxxxx(me) as he is. Not how he is threaded through txt messages and vm’s. The man who lived to kiss you. Everyday. Not once every 6 months. You are worthy of so much more than what you have. No penance allowed. I’m not a priest.
Love,
xxxxxx
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