You write all of these things without capitals or periods, and god forbid that you recognize the existence of a comma. Then you throw us for another loop by throwing in this stupid habit of yours where you use big words that no one really understands. I guess you could say that I’m just too dumb to understand, but that point would be moot by the end of the paragraph. Because it doesn’t matter how big the words get, or how much you deviate from your initial or final point; this isn’t how you speak and this isn’t how you think. And the honest version of you is better than this over-intelligent bullshit.
People like your words, sure. They might just nod and look enthusiastic because they’re trying not to let on that they can’t comprehend a single fucking thing that you wrote; but then again, I genuinely believe that there are plenty who love what you’re saying. I’d like to consider myself a part of that mass. Your ideas are good and your conviction is drenched in gold. But I’m trying not to lie either, and honestly I hate what you write. It isn’t you, and you’re trying to convince us all that it is. Where are you going with this?
A simple sentence: the dog pissed on my shoe.
That’s all you need. Yet there’s no fucking way that I can tell you to calm down your literature, that it’s bursting at the seams of your body. It’s leaking into your socks to join the dog piss, and mixing into this vile concoction of opinion and anger (and maybe a little bit of drugged blood.)
I can’t tell you this because I do not exist.
God forbid that either you or I admit how much we miss each other in the short moments of clarity between doses of what each of us has chosen to take.
And I guess that I’ve missed the point too; because all I’ve been wanting to say this whole time is that I’m really fucking sorry for what I did to you.