"I miss you so much. It’s rainy and ugly outside and I want you so bad. I need you here so I can feel okay and alive. I need you here so I can fuck you and feel complete. You should be right by my side so I can spank you and kiss you and touch you. This is so terrible, you should have been here months ago when I needed you most. You would have kept me happy and talking to people. I would have been able to better share with you all the things that have been happening. This is like a blogpost, I wonder what all those vicious anons would say to me about this. It doesn’t matter, you need to be next to me so I can hold you and rely on you. So I don’t have to explain shit over the phone. So I can get laid and not hate myself. So you can tell me all the good things that are coming to me, so I can come all over you and just feel more alive than I have these last few months. It’s such bullshit all of it, it is. I’d tell you everything would be fine, even though it’d real need to be you telling me that. It wouldn’t matter if you were just sitting here while my allergies slaughter me and I dread going to work without food or sleep. This fucking sucks, how is it that it all seems less and less possible as the day approaches. Be next to me and serious. Be next to me and warm. Let’s touch and tell each other secrets that don’t matter when we’re next to one another. It’s gonna be good if the neurosis doesn’t kill us first. If porn doesn’t swallow me whole. If you don’t find a way to get back to Chicago. It’s been said that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but my heart can’t get bigger, it needs to release on you or it’ll just deflate and wilt away ‘till I runaway again. Fuck it all, get here and kiss me. Find me and I’ll tell you it all. Don’t let Columbus miss and sink in the heart of the Gulf of Mexico. Don’t let me think too hard about it or I’ll fuck it up. Don’t be worried about the letters I send, they don’t violate your wishes. This fucking sucks. The rain will stop and summer will start once nature realizes that its sun can shine through your long brown hair while you’re propped up over me. Has anyone ever told you that? Your hair and the sun compliment each other better than Hitler and his mustache. When I see the sun shinning through the strands of your hair, I’ll know that we’ve made it, that everything will be okay. Like when the band of survivors in Planet Terror reach the Pacific Coast of Mexico. Like when Woody Allen realizes that the seventeen year old is the one for him. Like when Marv figures that there’s only one thing he has to do right and then he can die laughing."