I really regret if I hurt you, which it sounds like I did. I admit I base most of my friend-interactions as an adult on the kind of playful fun I had as a kid, and it works a lot of the time. The inner child and all that. Except now most of us have better jokes and our own money and greater aptitude in not being unintentionally shitty to each other. Kids are, like, monsters ain’t it.

But the inner children thing has never quite worked the same with you and me, has it? The thing is, on my better days — ok, on my best days — I can be the kind of kid that’s a bit annoying, a bit pretentious, but occasionally spouts some weird-ass corner-case trillionth-percentile never-yet-spoke-upon-planet-Earth sentence that unfurls a teensy part of reality you never suspected was there. The luck of being that kid? Mixed bag. Some days, hellz yeah… other days… hopefully you can relate to this feeling, because YOU KNOW you’ve been that kid for me.

(First date, morning after, walking back, “I almost feel like I should’ve warned you. I have this thing where I’m a catalyst for people, they meet me and stuff starts changing really fast for them. I don’t know why.”)

So if you find yourself occasionally wondering why it may seem I (or others?) view you as alien yet akin, fascinating yet unfathomable, worthy yet disparaged, or any other false dichotomies we even label ourselves as sometimes, remember this:

I. Fuckin. Love you. Ok?

I love you. Fuck it.

As cheesy as it is, I love that you’re alive and that I met you and that you’re so damn… whatever the hell you are. I love your sacred immutable being-ness. I also love you in that I’m sexually attracted to you, but you already knew that. I do love you though.

Not trying to make stuff awkward here, I promise I’ll stop in a minute, but just let’s agree: it’s probably as difficult to love someone else as it is to love yourself. Coincidentally, both Eckhart Tolle and Wedding Crashers (2005) assert that true love is the soul’s recognition of itself in another. Which in case you haven’t been reading carefully haha, that means WE ARE FUCKED


It took me so much processing to grasp the possible intention[s] of your message — it’s literally so distant an interpretation from what I thought I was saying — though I affirm my frequent, thoughtful consideration of your reactions — yet somehow this whole over-edited notepad monstrosity is still the most linear response I could come up with?! Whence and wherefore hath skewed we awry, I known’t. But here we are.

I’m afraid of losing you again,
but I’m also pleased to talk with you,
but I also grapple with expectations,
but I also just wanna maintain cuz world be fucked rn,
but I know it’s almost always productive to intellectually engage with you,
but you do actually think rather differently than me,
but I also believe that’s ultimately bollocks,
but what the fuck would even BE the answer anyway,
and is the question actually just “hey, are you fucking with me?”

If so here is my gift to you, to both of us, for this day and for every day.

Here it is.

I am no more fucking with you as I am fucking with myself.

Same goes. I still ❤️ you no matter what.

💌 Boop. 💌

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