Saturday February 24th 2007, 10:38 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the perpetual movement,

It’s been two weeks since I’ve landed in Los Angeles. Not a day has gone by since the initial landing where I’ve had time to sit and contemplate the consequence of my move. If I’m not moving boxes from house to house, than I’m reconnecting with old friends and colleagues or trying to find work. The job market for design seems slow and retarded. Therefore, I am still jobless. However, my inclination is, when desperate times arrive, something will turn up. The house I was living at in Highland Park was wonderful. My neighbors were chill and their pet pit bull loved me. Brianna, my roommate was a beautiful woman who has so much potential and talent. I must say, I’m a bit jealous of her knack to throw together fabric in sequences that, for lack of a better adjective, stun. Even though I really enjoyed living in Highland Park, I can’t stay there. An artist studio opened up in downtown LA, and I had to jump on the opportunity to have my own studio. However, the rent for the studio, plus the rent for the room in Highland Park, is too much for this out of work art kid. Therefore, I moved out of the house, and into the back room of my friend’s place in Echo Park. The rent for the room is half the price as the rent in Highland Park. The only setback to this ultimate machination is that I am sharing the back room, which resembles my parents’ closet, with another person. It’s not that I mind sharing the space; the problem lies in the fact that there literally is only enough room for one person in the space. But I have faith that everything will work out, and our ability to share the space will overpower our need for personal space. Anyway, I plan to be in my studio more often than sleeping at home. But let me let you in on a little secret, Mindy. I’m scared to paint. Can you believe it? I am intimidated by the high caliber of artists in which I am sharing my studio space. But this fear will hopefully dissipate once I actually push pigment along the canvas. For some reason, I doubt you care about my fears. But beyond this doubt, I still want to share with you a glimpse of what’s going on in my life. It’s been quite tumultuous these past few weeks, yet my hope is that once things calm down, in terms of moving and unpacking, I will settle back into a routine which will help guide the stressful doubts and fears which rule the inner circles of my consciousness. What have you been up to these days? It’s been a few weeks since I last spoke with you, and I’m beginning to suspect that it’ll be at least a few months more until we casually pass a friendly “helloâ€? to one another. Have you met a new lover? Are you still house sitting? What’s the summer San Francisco weather like? Los Angeles is going through a heat wave, which is causing quite a few electrical blackouts throughout the city. In fact, I am writing to you in my underwear because the heat is too unbearable fully clothed. As I look down at my chicken legs, I’m almost blinded by how pasty they are. These legs are definitely not fully cooked. However, my upper body has its usual farmer’s tan from the repetitive wife beater I wear that allows a breeze on my shoulders. Well, you have yourself a good night love.

-Thoughts in motion.

Friday February 23rd 2007, 4:53 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the drugs,

Habits are hard to break. The brain concretes as one makes progress through history. In fact, I’d go as far as saying that tradition is a societal and historical development whose goal is to become habit. Truth is a tradition, while searching for the truth is habitual. Since I’ve been back in the City of Lost Angels, I’ve fallen into the tradition of doing certain drugs at parties. And even though your voice calls to me, haunting me with the words “Take care of yourselfâ€?, I feel as if I don’t know how to take care of myself, especially if I continue these destructive activities. When I’m socializing, the part of my brain that knows when to stop destroying itself turns off. I know my limitations; I just don’t know when to stop. Traditionally, drugs are habit-forming. Have I fallen into a stereotype of use and abuse? Why do I abuse my mind in social settings? When you and I were married, we barely did any harmful substances. I felt clean. (That is of course if you don’t count the alcohol, however we only became extremely intoxicated on special occasions or on nights when I hated myself and felt like drinking my consciousness away). You were all the drug I needed. The endorphins of Love out-stimulate any man-made chemical one can put in one’s body. I swear by this statement. Therefore, I am constantly searching for Love, looking to inject such a beautiful substance straight into my limbic system. Oh how I wish I could be constantly high on Love, without any comedown. Love comedowns are the worse type of comedown. It takes weeks, months and sometimes years to recover from such intense mental stimulation, if one recovers at all. But whom can we blame as the dealer of love? Is it that fat cherub, Cupid? Is he the pusher that controls the love levels from his clandestine love labs? Like drugs, love makes humans do stupid liberal things. Shouldn’t there be some Republican motion to outlaw Cupid and his labs from dealing Love in the streets of America? Who needs Love when there’s marriage? We can commit ourselves on paper rather than share the drug of Love with someone we cherish. But love is an addiction, formed by habit, formed by tradition. Once one has tasted the sweetness of love’s awesome temptation, it is highly doubtful one will ever go straight and bitter again, that is, until after the rehab session of post-love-traumatic syndrome.

-The User

Sunday February 18th 2007, 7:21 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Uncategorized

To the plague on my forehead,

One week after I moved into Robert’s house, a rash developed on my forehead. This curious excrescence came in two forms: pimples and boils. Along the veins of my forehead trailed the path of a disconcerting problem. My first reaction to the blemishes was to cover them up by wearing beanies or other types of hats that could conceal my whole forehead. However, when I wore hats, the rash seemed to spread from the contact with the cloth material. But I wasn’t about to parade around town, depressed and lonely, showcasing such an ugly face. I forced myself to wear hats, which made my face epidemic subsequently worse. As well, I couldn’t manage to leave the boils alone; I tried popping, picking, scrubbing, rubbing, poking, pretending they didn’t exist (but only for so long) and various other methods to alleviate this problem. But nothing worked to solve the riddle as to why these blemishes appeared. It’s been three months since the first appearance of my face. Some weeks have been better than others, as the rash subsides sometimes; however the dermatological condition has yet to go away. Through not-so-careful studies of my activities, my hypothesis as to why these disfigurements exist lies in the fact that I’ve been smoking a pack of cigarettes a day since the day we broke up. The chemicals in the smokes are making their way into my forehead veins and they are surfacing as this “socially unacceptable condition of uglinessâ€?. If I touch my infected skin and spread the rash, the whole process begins all over again. It’s too bad I have such a hard time not touching the irritable boils on the outside of my frontal lobes, especially when I’m stressed out. My second hypothesis, why my forehead is now a general plague filled area, is from the stress of our breakup. As the subconscious and conscious levels of stress from our breakup increase, so does the severity of my facial condition. The rise and fall of social beauty has followed this graphable equation: Two days ago my skin was clearing up and relief filled my thoughts like a warm hug on a cold night. However, last night, I once again had a dream about our breakup, which subconsciously screwed my perception of reality, therefore, causing me to awake panicked and stressed. And wouldn’t you know it? The plague on my face reappeared as a telltale sign of this wicked subconscious process. Now, I doubt it is a coincidence that I smoke more when I am stressed about our breakup, which is making the separation of these two hypothesizes almost near impossible. Maybe I should go to a dermatologist and consult a professional on the subject matter; but having all of life’s answers given to me on a silver platter takes away from the fun of investigative critical analysis. So, I think I’ll hold out a little longer before cheating myself out of the dopamine I can potentially release into my synapses by way of appreciating the hard work and effort that is facilitating the understanding of this psychological, neurological and biological questioning.

-The ugly duckling

Saturday February 17th 2007, 3:39 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the M trinity:

Mary: Mary is a short, sweet, strong and beautiful woman. Her intelligence spans across plains of wisdom, from post-modern philosophy to circus camp training. Mary has a special place in my heart because of how brilliant a woman she is. Her fine hair is concealed by colorful strips of dreaded yarn, which is intertwined from her scalp to the tips of her strands. Her skull is a bit larger than the average woman’s skull, however he cranium’s unique architecture only helps to support her expansive consciousness. I met Mary on Friendster shortly after my break up and wanted nothing more than to discuss the dynamics of relationships through a dialectical understanding betwixt I and the Other. Mary thought I was too shy to kiss her; however, a kiss could not compare to the intellectual consumption I craved from this born east-coast beauty. Mary was always too busy to spend the amount of time I wanted her to spend with me. What begun as a beautiful brilliance, ended as a flaky misunderstanding. She plainly didn’t have the time to develop a commitment to me. I don’t blame her for her busy schedule. I especially enjoyed Mary’s snuggles.

Morgan: The connection with Morgan was a curious one. We met on MySpace as I was going through lonely and macabre evenings in San Francisco. Her profile said she lived in SF; however a week before I first messaged Morgan, her boyfriend cheated on her, therefore she absconded from SF to move back to her home in Phoenix, Arizona. After weeks of messaging back and forth, I finally made the decision to visit Morgan in Phoenix. I had never been to Phoenix, and besides, I needed to make a new physical connection with a girl something to help me physically get over Mindy. When I arrived in Phoenix, Morgan was already drunk. She was sweet and docile, but as she progressively became more intoxicated a powerful woman emerged from within her frail essence. This precedence was enough to spark a curiosity in me, to find out why a woman like her could turn a Ms. Jekyll into a Ms. Hyde. Morgan’s dad left her at an early age, and her mom died when she was 11. She was raised by her uncle in Arizona, yet hates her wealthy frugal Aunt. Morgan may never leave AZ again. She feels as if her dream, San Francisco, was ruined and can never reoccur. I told Morgan that dreams end, you wake up, you go back to sleep and your dream begins again.

Mindy: You and I met on Friendster late last August. Needless to say, I was bemused by everything concerning you and your history. Sexually, you were a nymphomaniac, and I loved every sexual position you could bend yourself into. I honestly crave the touch and smell of your insides. The sounds you made while being fucked were angelic, or demonic (same thing). Your lips were tolls of pleasure that manipulated my lips in ways unknown to me in the past. However, your lips were also a source of pain, biting hard into my skin, as if you vacillated between a monstrous carnivore and delicate vegan. The dichotomies that developed inside your head were pleasurable to me, and I loved every word in which you spoke. Your boredom enticed me to reevaluate my own nature of boring you. I wanted to be everything to you, while hypocritically not allowing you to be everything to me. I continually reminded you of your beauty and physical gratification, however I never allowed you to complete me. I needed Art to do that. And this was a problem for our marriage. However, I still doubt how authentic your request was to be my “everything.â€? The sex was good, Mindy, even though I was boy number 37 on your list of men. You were my number 17.


Wednesday February 14th 2007, 1:05 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To a desert connection,

I am in the land of your father’s house. I am in the land of a scorched urbania. The Arizona desert is one of the hottest environments in the United States, besides Death Valley. This land is amazingly dry, with mounds of dirt sporadically placed along the outskirts of urban centers. No building is taller than four stories because it would cost more to air condition a sky rise than any business could pull in revenue. On average the temperature stays at a constant 105 degrees, but during the devil’s hours (3 pm until 6 pm) the temperatures raise to 112 plus degrees. The only saving grace which the devil offers the desert dwellers is that the heat is a dry heat, unlike other areas in the United States that offer humid damp heat, which asphyxiates as it burns the skin; At times Sacramento was such a city. The humid temperature of 105 degrees plus the smog from the valley’s inward slope made us not dare go outside on certain summer days. There use to be news report warnings as to how unhealthy the air would be on those abominable days. “Do not go outsideâ€? was cleverly disguised as “Spare the Air Daysâ€? in their television reporting. However, we always had the Sacramento River to play in, just in case we decided to tempt the devilish ways of the Sacramento heat. The river was a place for fantasy, for puckish play and childish manners. We were quite jovial growing up in Sacramento. The children I associated with were your usual suspects of terror and joy. On the weekends we’d go fishing with the gear we either had borrowed from our parents or stole from the local fishing shop. I was never any good at catching the fish but I always enjoyed the process of baiting a hook or fixing a pole. We felt free to be anything when we were out fishing; we could have been China men fishing from the shores of Hong Kong or pirates fishing for the days feast. We sometimes pretended to be on completely different worlds, experiencing what it was like to build society up from the ground again, going back to our Earthly primordial knowledge of how to survive on our own. If only there were women with us, we could have gone further into such fantastical scenarios; however, we were just four boys free from the pressures of anything outside of our imaginations, free from the dangers of heartbreak, repression, pain and suffering. We were the Lord of the Flies, the Kings of Unknown Lands. But the constant known was the river, the beauty of Fresh flowing streams. Our dreams were gentle in the summer currents of the Sacramento River. And though the dense summer swelter in AZ brings these nostalgic memories flooding back to me, I soon become disappointed that I can only wade in those childhood waters through my memories alone. When I close my eyes and imagine the currents flowing around my shins, I can almost feel the coolness of its waves. However, when I release my eyelids and allow them to open, the blazing white light reflecting the sun’s glare off dry desert plains blinds me.


Tuesday February 13th 2007, 10:03 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To old thoughts and to unknown futures,

Yesterday you called me inquiring about the quality of my road trip to Los Angeles. The lethargic tone in your voice could have meant one of two things: you didn’t actually care about the question you posed and therefore didn’t care for the response I was going to give you; or you were too tired to put any effort into your question like a decent conversationalist. The latter seemed too straightforward for my imagination. However, it turns out from your banal attitude, it was the correct reason for your apathy. You bore me to tears, dear wife. Your mundane stories of your work and social life make me wonder just how honest you’re being with me. No one’s life is as boring as you make your life seem. I wish you could be honest with me concerning what’s going on in your life. At least then there is the chance that I could be emotionally stimulated by your voice. I’d rather love or hate you, than to feel empty boredom with you. Yet, I am a hypocrite. When I speak to you, I don’t tell you about the exciting things that are happening in my life. Yesterday I had every opportunity to cut off your unexcited stories and let you know of my plans to go to Phoenix to meet a new girl who I have been speaking to for the past two months; I could have told you about the grass I smoked the other night with my friends; I could have even told you about my drunken alcohol binge which has yet to cease. (Speaking of these exciting yet atrocious activities makes my head swell with pressure and stress.) I could mention all the thoughts of suicide I had in the past week, or maybe I could have told you about how sexy I think my new roommate is. But these “could have” statements only bring us further from actual conversation. With every “could have” there is an equal statement “did not.” Therefore I will move on from hypothetical analogies, and tell you about my current standings. I am in the Bob Hope Airport, waiting for my flight to arrive. I am going to Phoenix tonight to meet Morgan. I have no expectations for this adventure. Getting out of California will be nice, however I hear the weather in AZ is 112° every day. I hope I don’t melt like an otter pop out of the freezer. The airport in Los Angeles is full of beautiful people, physically that is. However, most can’t hold a conversation longer than they can hold a crying baby, which brings their beauty ratings plummeting to the ground. And speaking of plummeting, today in the news there was an explosion that destroyed a subway system in London, killing 37 people and wounding 700. Al-Queida claimed responsibility for the attacks. It’s always exciting to take sick pleasure in the pain and suffering of innocent victims across the globe. I have a prurient desire for such happenings. I think you do too, you sick individual. You use to peruse www.rotten.com all the time before I met you. I always thought that being a vet tech was a way for you to experience bloody carcasses as a socially acceptable profession. Come on, admit it! You like to see blood and guts. Hell, you were a mortician for a while. Only the sickest of the sick become morticians. Though I digress. My plane is here and they are currently boarding. I always touch the outside of the plane as I pass from the throughway and step onto the plane. It’s a superstition I have. I actually loathe flying. It makes me nervous.

-A nervous boy.

Tuesday February 06th 2007, 8:39 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To a lonely Tuesday,

The heat of summer is suffocating. The weather in Los Angeles can destroy ambition. However, today I did accomplish a few errands such as: I built a shelf for my closet; I sent out numerous emails and resumes to potential job listings; I started working on building a PHP website for my old employer Fit For Living. Moreover, I was able to scout my local neighborhood for signs of life and excitement, even though I found none. The neighborhood I’m living in is naturally beautiful and at nights, the chirping of crickets brings a warm nostalgic feeling for my childhood in Sacramento. But in terms of hip-action and excitement, there’s not a single activity in this enclave of Los Angeles. One part of my prospects for survival is glad to know I won’t be bothered by such rouse as I had been in the past; yet on the other hand, there is a part of me that wishes to live in the center of cultural excitement. So once again, I’m torn between the decent solitude of my geographical location versus my need to be in a stimulating environment to keep in touch with contemporary culture. My roommate Brianna, who up until tonight I enjoyed immensely, told me tonight that I probably won’t be able to paint in the house because she doesn’t like the smell of the fumes. I don’t like the smell either, however that doesn’t stop me for craving my visual expression through paint on a canvas. And so I’m a little upset about her qualms with me wanting to work in the house, especially since she has her sewing materials spread out through the entire place. In fact, the more I divide the space, the more I come to realize how unfair the current division is for me. The whole place is full of her things, yet we split the rent in half. Those types of fractions don’t add up in my head. But, I will wait a little longer before I make any rash decisions about how I am going to problem solve this equation. So far I’ve not one reply to my job searches, but it’s too early to become pessimistic. For Lunch today, Erin and I drove into Pasadena to eat sushi. I tried the scallop rolls for the first time. My advice is: don’t get the scallops. The texture is like little gonads that pop in your mouth like a burst of fishy flavor. While driving around the city, I concluded that moving to Los Angeles wasn’t just an important decision, it was a necessary one. I needed to leave your presence; I needed to escape from your haunting memories. If I hadn’t left San Francisco, I would have followed my self-destructive self into oblivion. It was a matter of pure survival for me to leave the ghost town that San Francisco became. And even though I feel lonely right now, I know I will be better able to cope with these lonely tendencies in Los Angeles than I could have in the wake of your wrath. Someday we may become so distant that your face will begin to blur as I try to recall your physical features, and I’m OK with this prediction. Your voice will no longer linger in my memories and your tonal registration will be supplanted with the songs of new ideas and fresh thoughts. These are exciting hopes that are helping me progress through some of my pent-up anger I have towards you. By choice or not by choice, you have become a scapegoat for everything that goes wrong in my life. I look forward to the time when I will no longer use you as an excuse for the follies of my life. But until that magical moment of release, you are the cause of my daily failures. Let me apologize ahead of time.

-A cricket chirping

Monday February 05th 2007, 3:08 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To my little house sitter,

Today was move in day at my new apartment, which isn’t really an apartment, but rather a house that was converted into a triplex complex. Brianna, my flat mate, is an aerial specialist from San Francisco; however she is also a fire dancer. She needs two more elements to complete the scrosickg chart of elements, but I doubt she will be able to conquer Earth and Water as she has conquered Fire and Air. Brianna is 28 years old and has been living in Los Angeles for two years now. She’s very sweet, though I can’t seem to see her and I spending much time together. We spoke about pulling up the carpet in the hallway and my bedroom, as well we have talked of painting the interior of the house vivid colors, unlike what’s on the walls now, which is a speckled sand and white atrocity. All of the boxes have been moved into their proper planes, yet I’m hesitant to unpack my things for a few reasons: I don’t have any furniture to place my objects on; I don’t want to unpack my possessions if we are going to paint the walls in the distant future; I just don’t feel like working anymore today. The box moving has exhausted me; the heat has destroyed my will to work. Summers in Los Angeles can be very trying, in terms of how lethargic the heat can make you. My stomach is yelling at me to feed its ever-consuming vacuum, but I think I’ll hold off from eating just a little longer. My neighbors in the triplex are very kind and offered me a portion of their BBQ as soon as I arrived to the house. They have a pit bull named “Tia,” who is two years old and the sweetest pit I’ve ever met. Brianna has two kittens whose names are Quela and… fuck, I can’t remember the other cat’s names. Today is the fourth of July, which means Los Angeles, will light its skies with flaming explosions of red, white and blue fireworks. I’ve never enjoyed the Fourth of Julys that I’ve spent in Los Angles. Five years ago I got into a car accident while returning from watching the fireworks display in Marina Del Ray. The year after that, I was continually hit on by a co-worker from my job at Borders Bookstore, which would have been nice, if it were a female employee; though it didn’t surprise me that he wanted to gobble my cock, considering that whole year of my life I was hit on by more men than hit on by women. Though I digress, you are housesitting this Fourth of July at some mansion in San Francisco. The fridge is stocked with beer and wine, and the Jacuzzi will be a nice relaxing atmosphere for you and your friends. And even though I may sound sweet and caring regarding you and your Fourth of July party, inside I feel jealousy, anger and depression. However, I won’t let those darker emotions ruin this Fourth of July. Tonight I will see my friend Erin, most likely drink and then hopefully find a place to crash. I won’t be staying at my new place in Highland Park tonight because I don’t have a bed yet. Tomorrow I am going to try to attend an open interview session at a painting school, however I don’t feel prepared or qualified for the position. I stare into blank canvases thinking only about my own wicked sadness. Therefore, if I can’t paint, how the fuck can I expect to teach painting? Well, sorry to sound like a self-loathing asshole, but that’s how I’m feeling right now– that and I’m fucking hungry. I think I’ll go eat now. Happy Jacuzzi madness, my cause of jealousy.

A lost Angel.

Sunday February 04th 2007, 8:16 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the Frosty Queen,

The smell is rather feral and mimics the tainted color of its walls. From the outside, the Frosty King hamburger restaurant seemed like a beautiful contrast to the sweltering heat of the California desert– an oasis and refuge from the brutality of the sun’s punishment for my current inhabitance. There are two arcade games conveniently placed in front of the fire exit as if to mock the seriousness of an actual fire. Archaic renditions of Atari 2600 video games continue to call out to the Frosty King’s patrons, yet no one wants to jostle the joystick, if you know what I mean. As I entered the Frosty King’s front doors, the irony of my stop became clearly evident and I was greeted with the same temperate climate as I had experienced in the desert. The Frosty King had falsely advertised on their road-way sign, a promise of a delicious cool treat. Yet even though the Frosty King was a building-sized oven, its ice cream machine could miraculously still deliver scrumptious treats to those who could stand the infernal heat. This I found to abnegate any assumed notion by way of contrast to their road sign, and relinquish the responsibility of the Frosty King to cool my sweaty brow with air conditioning. I ordered an Oreo cookie milkshake and sat in the corner next to the Mrs. Pac Man machine. As I gazed outside the window to a sun that is setting, my worries about the heat lesson and I begin to contemplate the journey still ahead. I’ve driven two hundred and fifty miles from San Francisco and have another one hundred and fifty miles more to travel. Today is the beginning of an end, as well as the beginning to my new beginnings. The space between two cities is a vortex, or synthesis, past and present, as well as a giving or moving towards a future. Similar to the way in which one can never be naïve, as one can never begin, but one is always beginning, my destination is neither an end point nor a future projection. The expansive presence of something that is beginning conflates into the territory of some that is ending, where one can no longer distinguish between the two concepts. My question for you: “Where does the ocean begin, and where does the beach end?” yet the rhetoric of such questions only brings us further from the more grounded presence of life: the smell inside the Frosty King is odious, the price of the Motel Six next to the Frosty King costs $31.99, or the concrete table outside is broken. In my departure of your city, I proclaimed my final farewell to a city that has dejected me from its amorous bowels. The song playing from my IPOD was inappropriate to my departure, and thusly I turned the entire radio off and drove away in silence. Yet in my mind, I bid you a fond farewell, and blew you a kiss to your lips as I crossed over the Bay Bridge. From the foggy shores of San Francisco, until I reach the smoggy hills of Los Angeles, you can count on my thoughts being forever focused on our love, which never made it through the months of our marriage. It is 6 hours of “would be’s” and “could be’s,” yet I’ve already driven more than half way to my destination. With you in mind and an Oreo cookie shake in my hand, I will continue my journey southward to return to the land of the lost angels. As the sun deserts the desert, I too shall depart the from the feral Frosty King.

-The Frosty King.

Thursday February 01st 2007, 3:33 am
Filed under: All Letters,Love Letters

To the Mindy,

You had me. We had each other. I do understand Mindy. I understand that I was not good enough for you. I understand that I make mistakes. I understand that I fucked up our marriage because you went out that night and I thought it was the death of us. I understand that you did not want me to be perfect, to be myself. I understand that I tried to hold myself together, and failed. I understand that you needed space. I understand that you feel completely alone, but you are not. I understand that I would have traveled across the globe to help comfort you. I understand that is not what you wanted. I understand that you feel you can no longer trust me. I understand these things. Now, you Mindy, understand this: I loved you. That letter was my fears. How can you not understand? Can’t you understand how fucked up I was? Can’t you understand what you really meant and mean to me? There was never ANY lack of love for you. I married you because I loved you so dearly. I came home that night furious because I thought you said you were lying to me the whole time about our entire love. THE WHOLE TIME! You told me you were only what I wanted you to be, the same thing you did to Justin, and nothing more. Everything that we shared fell to pieces in my mind. Moreover, you wanted to hold me? To comfort a bleeding brain? I couldn’t even look at you it hurt so badly. My life exploded. I’m not an angry evil person. I’m a good person. A loving and caring person. I hurt so badly. Death seemed like a honor at that time. You don’t understand this. And don’t you make me feel guilty for collapsing. I can’t slap on a fake smile. My body crumbled. If there is no trust anymore, how can I trust you? God damn-it Mindy. You are not allowed to hold this grudge against me. And you expect us to be friends? You can’t trust me, so how can we? You could check my email everyday for the rest of my life and you would NEVER find those words written ever again. However, that doesn’t matter to you. So, Mindy, now we understand each other. You can’t loose what you’re trying to salvage in your life. You can’t forgive me for not being perfect. You can’t trust me. You feel like I lied, when all I was, was just as confused as you were. And I cannot cope with this. I cannot be your friend when all I want to do is hold you. I cannot live with the torment. I cannot tell you how I feel, because you’ll shrug it off as if it means nothing so that you can feel better throughout your day. I love you Mindy. And you accuse me of hating you? It seems you are the one who hates me. You certainly don’t love me, and I doubt you even like me. Maybe one day you will forgive me for the mistakes I’ve made. But for now, walk away. We’ll both turn our backs. Remember, it’s easier to forget than it is to forgive. So lets take the easy route. Why the hell not? It’s not as if you’ll ever trust me again.
Sincerely yours.