Dear ,
I had a pleasant time this weekend past and wanted to send you this brief missive to let you know that I was thinking about you... and far from coming to any specific and certain conclusions I merely find myself lost in a mirage of intoxicating sensations.
Quite honestly, I was totally unprepared for the confession you made in the midst of your drunken, bloody stupor, while I was buried deep inside you, intoxicated with lust and alcohol- there was a symbolism, a kind of ancient ritualistic timing to the words that you spoke; I found them simultaneously fitting and deeply disturbing. I love hanging out with you and I love kissing you and I love love love fucking the living soul out of you and then sleeping for hours on end with our limbs intertwined like cats on a lazy Saturday afternoon. I've been jet skiing on the surface of the emotional world for so long that the idea of scuba diving down into the depths of real emotional connection both frightens and allures me.
It does seem impractical of you to fall for me now, that is to say, in a period of transition for you. I still worry that you may well find yourself flailing in a period of post-baccalaureate depression... I mean seriously, what now? Far be it from me to presume to give you any advice, but if there were any words that I might say to prepare you for what lies ahead of you then I would say them, if there was anything I could do or give to you to help you face the real world then I would do it and give it, but the simple truth is that this is something that you have to do on your own. You have to figure that shit out for yourself. All I can hope to do is reflect the best in you back to yourself.
Seriously though, I don't know what the fuck I'm trying to say. I didn't prepare for shit to go and get all serious. I'm like a submarine... I like to come and go as I please and spy on people and their worlds without them knowing it from the safety of my periscope. You have discovered one of my secret worlds by reading my journal. I feel naked.
Whatever. Hope to see you soon.
Your lover,
Zachariah Thomas McNaughton
Quite honestly, I was totally unprepared for the confession you made in the midst of your drunken, bloody stupor, while I was buried deep inside you, intoxicated with lust and alcohol- there was a symbolism, a kind of ancient ritualistic timing to the words that you spoke; I found them simultaneously fitting and deeply disturbing. I love hanging out with you and I love kissing you and I love love love fucking the living soul out of you and then sleeping for hours on end with our limbs intertwined like cats on a lazy Saturday afternoon. I've been jet skiing on the surface of the emotional world for so long that the idea of scuba diving down into the depths of real emotional connection both frightens and allures me.
It does seem impractical of you to fall for me now, that is to say, in a period of transition for you. I still worry that you may well find yourself flailing in a period of post-baccalaureate depression... I mean seriously, what now? Far be it from me to presume to give you any advice, but if there were any words that I might say to prepare you for what lies ahead of you then I would say them, if there was anything I could do or give to you to help you face the real world then I would do it and give it, but the simple truth is that this is something that you have to do on your own. You have to figure that shit out for yourself. All I can hope to do is reflect the best in you back to yourself.
Seriously though, I don't know what the fuck I'm trying to say. I didn't prepare for shit to go and get all serious. I'm like a submarine... I like to come and go as I please and spy on people and their worlds without them knowing it from the safety of my periscope. You have discovered one of my secret worlds by reading my journal. I feel naked.
Whatever. Hope to see you soon.
Your lover,
Zachariah Thomas McNaughton