Hi Raquel
I miss you. Fuck. This already feels weird. Like, I don't even know you. Like, the past 26 months have been spent in complete sensory deprivation (instead of salvation). I could always talk to you, even if it's something stupid like the confession of my lust for Katie Holmes, and I always knew when to shut up too (or so I think I did) but I spider-sensed the hesitence in your voice the last time you told me you loved me. I have felt you slowly staggering away from me for 2 months now. We went from resembling anvil-headed Ross and Rachel (yeah, that girl Brad Pitt gets to doggy) in that episode where they couldn't hang up on eachother because they were sssooooo fucking in love, to Kevin Arnold and his satanist broham, Wayne. You were Kevin, I was the dick. I crashed your saturn, I took your copy of Death Race 2000 and accidentally pissed on it in a lumbering. Christian-Brother's-induced sleepwalk. Yeah, I even set your clocks back, hoping you'd miss work and get fired from Orchard Supply just so I could spend more time with you. I'm greedy, I'm ugly. You, are neither. It's a wonder how we have lasted this long, but I've known never to question it... Why would I want to? You are gorgeous, intelligent, shaped like an old Classic Coke bottle, and you like carTOONS for shits sake! Besides, questioning reality only leads to the uterine-spurt of more complicated questions and problems. Fuck that. I've attempted to don the pansy-ass garbs of little-known-superamigo ULTRA PASSIVE MAN, accepting what's on my plate, but it's hard accepting another mans whorepipe in my girlfriend. I don't blame you though. I just wish you would've waited longer than 2 weeks after I died... My mouth is dry, and I have lost most feeling in my stomach. I am crying, and I have been since the "Friends" reference. My typing is getting faster... but once again (as I have so much in the past) I am probably saying the wrong thing. I love you (just as much now as I did the night you karaoked that gay-ass No Doubt shit at Legend's.) But I miss the spooning. I miss the cucumber melon scent of your hair... and I miss your smile. I don't know where I fucked up. I (still) love you.