Alright, where’d you go? I did it, I made a blog with these here letters, and I was waiting for you to give me permission to use your parts, but it’s too late, it’s been posted for all (29) to see and now there’s little you can do about it (except have me delete it).
No shame required as insisted upon. I find it charming that you said me writing about my mucus was charming. I find it a mystery as to why that charms some people/boys and why girls know that and thusly capitalize on that knowledge by talking about their bowel movements, B.O., periods, feminine itching, etc. Weird. But better than feeling compelled to pretend none of it exists, for sure.
I very much enjoy reading your writing, especially when it’s addressed to me, of course. No surprise there, and all women probably feel that way.
I’ve reached the point with my boyfriend that if I wrote him a love letter he’d wonder why. I’d be worried he would think I’m trying to get something out of him, like a proposal or something, which I’m not. We’re pretty happy with each other 98% of the time, and he wrote me a great love letter once, right after we started dating, and I tried to write him one back, but it was so retarded I finally gave up. And by now, it would just be strange. Sad? He would appreciate a retarded poem, I’m sure, but it would still have to be inspired by a special occasion, I think.
I just pooped, I mean popped, one half of one of his blue pills (the kind yungins take, not old dudes). Now my heart feels a little bigger than it did five minutes ago. I gave my dog CPR when he died. He came back to life, but then blood started coming out of his mouth, and he was gasping every twenty seconds, and I hated myself for it. He died an ugly death from an enlarged heart. Common to poodles, I guess. God, that dog was so amazing. I would clone him again in a second, if it was free or pretty cheap, and if it meant he would live a full life (instead of a half one which apparently is the life expectancy of clones, or at least that was the case several years ago…). My stomach feels funny. Skeeter had a bit of an eating disorder, though. He was a binge-er, and would find food and eat ’til he almost popped. You couldn’t handle him because his skin would feel so tight over his belly you’d be afraid he would burst. I’m pretty sure he learned it from my dad. He also picked up this neurotic thing where he would pull the fur out of his paws and his sides with his teeth. Pretty sure that came from being around my dad, too. He has plenty of his own self-defeating neuroses.
I have to pee. Is that charming? Okay, later.