Dear ___________,

The times I’ve been away have been truly rewarding, my sharp eyed friend. The hassles involved in helping another human to look at your tights and want to take you off of a seven year vegetarian diet, this is truly unseemingly singular of an applause.

So I say, we must pursue. Pursue the quantity of alcohol which is used as just a chaser and a roundabout sort of supplement altogether. PURSUE the great investigators of the world however many pistol whipped idiots need first be bailed out on a technical foul, (whatever that’s supposed to mean!!). And above all, and most astoundingly of all, PURSUE the boxers which women have worn nearly as often as men these days; to say nothing of gender values, think of the men that have been decapitated, possibly even castrated for which these same boxer wearing women have requested a y-shaped coffin, on their behalf as it were: “Your pleasure is what pleases me!” Easy enough to say to a man twice without a head!

I grow tired of these drugs, and they’ve been tired of me since I went, quote, ape shit.

Time and time again I’ve witnessed things like this latest crush of mine, turned into a soggy diaper as quickly as it’s expressed — the crust hardens like the heart, my sour readers, the crust and the heart become one.

My poor heart needs a diaper. There’s no reason to explore any other methods of approach; believe me, I’ve read all the, “How to Make a Woman Want to Smell Your Shit” series books; there’s nothing in there I have tried which I’m not going to try; the truth of the matter is that as the particular form of self- help in question radiates futility in its ponderlessly glib rotation of eventual descriptionary pandering, the absurdity of “winning” the hand of a woman reaches a turning point to me; to where I see the truth in it.

In truth, there lie the facts, when so often is the reverse a simple reversal of truth. The finest title for a movie about romance in this recent age would have to be: Masturbating Mutually to the Smell of Your Lover’s Feces.

I rest my rectum.

I apologize, my dearest, for the way that I’ve been capitalizing on our lack of an affair. The truth is, as the letters form themselves next to each other, below my pen, the “sangary” is the same as it was. I get such a warm feeling inside when I think of the shamefully delicate flick, with your left pointer finger, as I recall, you used to strike my slowly erecting penis midway - a sobering moment for us both, no doubt! Because that flick, which was so meant to discourage the member in question, under scrupulous questioning, not only showed little or no effect on the progress of its profile, it has in fact inspired a release from my bowels I haven’t seen since Jack Daniel’s was a breakfast cereal to me. Whiskey shits extravaganza! It equals the intoxication of true love, such an outburst.

And my only interpretation can be a singular intrepid senile drive for insanity in wait for the real marriage!

Yes the kind of diarrhea which us youngsters never dream will come out of our asses until we’re half-way to Vegas with the most romantic kind of jack pot saved up a body can hold.

Will you marry me?

A seriousness has come over me — a profound loathing for all I’ve said. I intend to send this in its entirety in spite of the fact that you mayn’t get past the first bathroom reference.

But I truly believe what I’ve written, and that we ought to be open about our bathroom habits from the start. Also, I take great pride in my ability to feel and express regret. Seeing what I’ve written so far, and how it would eventually make me feel can only increase the male/female bond I’ve taken it upon myself to feel for both of us; as is the customary expectation for a man of my upbringing I also happen to know that the female orgasm increases this bond. My masturbation has increased absurdly ever since you made it clear that I’m not your type; what future husband could do more?

So run around as you please and rest assured that I hold this spot by my side with a regularity unheard or spoken of since the realization of loneliness came across my shit-stained heart some several hours ago.

I can hardly think of it without shedding a tear, or spraying the carpet with hysterical inaccuracy.

I live for you!