for alex_royale, because.
I almost didn't post it. I almost didn't post it. Two thirds of the way finished, I got scared of it. Had a mini-freakout which escalated into my abrupt refusal to go through with it - necrophilia, WHAT. - and I did the equivalent of shoving all the papers off the desk and saying, "No fucks are given!" That's when Scarlett came and rescued my castrated self.
But this morning, finding your post. Even if I took the time, hours out of today, days out of my life, I wouldn't justifiably be able to tell you what it meant to me. Chopping onions just typing this now. It's my allergies. Whatever. Don't you look at me like that.
I'm awed. And humbled. (And that knee-jerk feeling of never wanting to write again tickles the back of my mind because: The whirling dervish cloud grew smaller, and Red darted forward on her rag doll legs. No bones. She breaks nothing when she falls, but crawling seems easier.) That's Stephen King writing the introduction for a book by R. L. Stine. You get that, right? YOU > ME.
When I met you back when, and we friended each other after 5Q, I thought to myself, this person should be lining their words up on bookshelves. To this day, I feel that same way. If my little story could mean that much to anyone, and an anyone as gifted as you, I'll take it and run with it. And keep it in a jar of formalin in my fridge. ♥
however far away, i will always love you.