It's still early evening. I want to write, but can't seem to get words down on paper for the stuff I want to be writing. Watching the second episode of Top Chef: Just Desserts made me crave margaritas. I have margarita mix, ice, and tequila. And I don't have to be anywhere until 10 tomorrow
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I shouldn't have started the letter like that. You'll take it literally, and I don't mean it that way. I save my hate for the people that deserve it, like Stryfe and Cameron Hodge. And I don't even dislike you. I... oh, what the hell. I love you.
But you can be a real pain in the ass.
And no, not in the good way. Though you're that, too. I'm comfortable enough with myself to admit it.
But that's the thing. I'm comfortable with myself. I know who I am and what I like, and I know how I feel about you. I don't know if I'd shout it from the rooftops, because I don't have a real good history when it comes to shouting. Or rooftops. But I'd like to introduce you as my boyfriend. I'd like to be proud of that. And you make that kind of impossible ( ... )
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