Monday July 31st 2006, 5:37 am
Filed under: Hate Letters,Love Letters

M (runt be-gone),

Today, I write about presence. Not being nor time, but the becoming which synthesizes the object and the subject. More specifically, I’d like to discuss your presence in my dialectic in the immediate subsequent instant. Your aura, the rational embodiment of your essence, reflected by my thoughts, is dark and cruel. It is, in fact, ugly. True ugliness. You have become, to me, a actualized fulfillment of the True beast. This, however, is a blessing for me, as I can now move on and concern myself with other philosophical instances of presence. However, I would like to point out the amazing capabilities of the cognitive process. It isn’t everyday one finds oneself in full circle, with completion realized. You have destroyed yourself. What once I loved, I now hate; moreover, you have transcended through this paradox (by means of context) and have fulfilled your position as a True being. Your subjective self now complies with an objective, and therefore you have become an absolute spirit – a filthy disgusting absolute presence in this dialectical procedure. I find this whole singularity perplexing because of the expedient nature of my thoughts. However, I do realize that these thoughts have not appeared “out of nowhere” nor are they a direct response to experience. These conclusions of my concept of you have dialectically been sprouting through cognitive investigation, through detailed gaze upon the subjective nature of our sacral, intimate, unfriendly (at times), and individual encounters. Even though I realize the fluid nature of Truth, and the superficial qualities of an absolute conclusion, I can, without any more doubt, approach you as a True being, with an aura, a presence (which I noted earlier fulfills the requirements of cyclical destruction, thus transcending into your being – a becoming that is Truly disturbing and vile) and further, as an embodied spirit in reality.

Yours Truly,

a happy boy.

Sunday July 30th 2006, 8:29 am
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

Dear filthy bitch,

Again I write to you from the tip of my soul to the bottom of my heart. This letter is in regards to Chance, my love. What is it about Chance that we appreciate so much? How about the fact that Chance led you to me, that Chance began all that was our love. However, with Chance comes risk, like the risk I took in marrying you, in loving you, in creating a now non-existent life with you. I gave up so much to help you, to be with us, to create our love. And to thank me for that risk—to show your gratitude—you fucked me over by giving up, you fucking quitter. You gave up; you took no Chances. You used my ability to love like a dirty towel. You washed your hands with me and threw me out. You don’t care where I end up, if I end up at all. You don’t care if I live, succeed, fail, or die. You are not my friend—you are loveless, selfish and narcissistic. You’re a fallen woman who knows nothing beyond yourself. You risk nothing and live off of the risks of others. For this, I hate you. You have a very special place in my life now. I’ve never hated anyone before this Chance. You will die alone and unhappy. And because of this, I smile.

Thank you, and fuck you,


Saturday July 29th 2006, 8:48 am
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters


Please, be afraid of my thoughts. Please, worry about how I feel towards you. Let me begin by stating, you’re a quitter, a useless speck of instability that I find repulsive and vile. You are the odious worm who wanders in and out of the dirt to feed off the leftover mental accomplishments of others. You have neither the capacity for thought nor the ability to love. You are—and I do mean this— a terrible human being. Or maybe, you don’t even qualify as human; you are below the lowliest human, an exotic ape. Humans are, in comparison to you, delightful creatures. You are sick: no, better, sickening. I become sick when I think of you. Your insides are rotting pieces of flesh that smell worse than the shit you spew from your little precious cracked mouth. A bowl of my own vomit would taste better than the taste I have in my mouth when I say your name. But I guess there is a place for you on this Earth, and it rests between the stovetop and the bottom of the pan. Not even Hell is bad enough for you. Somewhere in the stink of Satan’s armpit lies your home. Oh, and by the way, any pleasure you get from this letter, and pleasure you get from life, ever, belongs to NO ONE but me. This is the cost of my love that you gave up on so quickly. So, go fuck your ex, go fuck whomever you wish for all I care. You’re a fucking poor excuse for a human being. You don’t have the mental capacity to experience any appreciation besides a good fuck. Please, by all means, delve into your retched self, your nasty narcissism, and fall flat on your face. The concrete will only be a release from your wicked life. You’re a dime-a-dozen dearest, and you know this. Your façade can’t mask your emptiness for long. Good bye you bitch.