Dear you,

Goddamn.  I can’t figure out if I want that one to be about me or if I really don’t.  Salut.  Superior mindfuck job, I’m impressed.

Dear you,

I wasn’t trying to pick a fight.  I was just writing. A lot of times I don’t figure out just how I feel about shit until I write it down.  My writing stuff down is totally different from my having a conversation with you (or anyone else) about it.  I write my way to linear thought (sometimes).  It doesn’t always come until I write it down.  That’s just how I’m wired.  If I was really upset in a relationship-threatening way (from my perspective), I would have spoken to you about it offline.  I would apologize except I’m not actually sorry.  So, er, yeah.  Er, sorry for not being wired right, and for not being precisely sorry.

Dear you,

You are a worthless, heartless, selfish sack of useless crap and I harbor a secret hope in my heart that you are dead.

Dear you,

I hope your raspberries lead you somewhere truly special and welcome.  You are beautiful, one of a kind, and full of so much life and love I wish I could wrap you in ribbons, play you a tune on the fiddle, and dance with you and our daughters on the close-cropped grass under a full moon.  Don’t stop being you.

Dear you,

Never what you expect.  Frankly, I don’t know what that is, and I live a bit in fear of the idea that we might get there.  To the “just what I expected” space.  I mean, ugh.

Dear you,

I adore you.  It’s getting lame, how much I want to say and how little I feel I can, finally, esp. since I’ve never met you in the flesh.  I sure don’t want to come off like some fucking groupie or some such.  But your posts almost always drive me mad with: Je regrettte, or Je desire, or penser, es tut mir leid, je ne regrette rien, mais non, I do after all.  You are so bright and sleek; I’m fine with being on the periphery of that, as a spectator — don’t stop.

Dear you,

I never meant to hurt you.  Except for when I did. But at the time I thought it was self-defense.

Dear you,

I don’t do lukewarm.  So maybe I am still hurt.  That is not really your fault, finally.  I know this. Maybe that informs my caution.  Fair enough.  But you’re part of my personal mythology now.  What else can I say.

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