Unfunny, self-pitying email I ’m not going to send

Dear Fauxhawk,

This morning I woke up in a BM. It could be the shitty weather, or it could be that Barbara and I went to the Lily Allen show last night and it reminded me of you. Or rather, it reminded me of those first few weeks after we broke up in that cowardly, unsatisfactory way, when I stumbled around my apartment like an amputee and dedicated myself to getting fat.

That was four months ago. The funny thing is, I was doing pretty well until last night. You see, someone has been keeping me company, being almost unbelievably sweet and generous and loving, giving so much in so many ways that I am constantly stunned. I am not accustomed to being cared for and loved like this. It makes me sad to realize this – it makes me wonder why, for so long, I gave so much of myself when I what I got back was not quite enough to sustain love and life as I wished to live it. And it makes me wonder if this lovely, unusual person is a gift from the cosmos after you completely shattered my hopes with your idiotic seven year plan - of which I was not a part.

And yet, despite my gratitude for this gift, and despite the realization that you are - in many ways - a sad bastard, I still think about you. Despite all the damage done, I miss being Director of Landscaping Affairs for your balcony; I missing sitting in the sun eating French toast and losing the tanning competition. Most of all, I miss the way you excited my brain. I could talk to you all day and all night.

Last night, I passed your neighborhood on my way home and I felt a terrible and dangerous pang of longing. We have no right to be together, but I still look for you and wonder.

Love,
P.


Credit: Pictures of Walls