Dear you,

You are not allowed to touch me, ever again.  It’s not worth the fallout.  You may have your own, but mine is different, because when you leave, I am *alone,* and you are not.

Dear you,

I miss you painfully, yet I think the best thing I can do is keep my distance.

Dear you,

I’m not doing last summer again.

Dear you,

I’m not entirely sure what you were trying to tell me on the phone Tuesday afternoon, but I’m fairly certain it was something.  Hint: phone conversations go better when the matter at hand is communicated verbally rather than through body language.

Dear brain,

I don’t mind the dreams full of blown up bits of persons, and people I love being amputees and such, as much as I mind the up close and personal and tactile you give me of all that.  Can I please have a weekend or so without this?  without waking up thinking what the abbreviated stump of someone’s newly abbreviated leg feels like under my fingertips? Please?  I would like to have a *nice* dream for a change.  Don’t people have *nice* dreams? And am I not a person?  Sheesh.

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