Have I told you* lately how much I like excuses? Especially ones involving elderly parents and work? Have I told you how classy it is for you to invite me to hit you up if I get bored at ***-***-**** without your knowing or asking for my name? I suppose I could call myself “you know, that girl.”

 

If I haven’t told you, it’s because I love you. I love your excuses, your elderly parent, hitting you up at ***-***-****, and your not knowing my name. I love that you are interested in my being an astronaut, but missing the humor in my saying that. You sound sincere. You like history, though, and you read war stories (although for the life of me I do not know what FAC means in reference to Vietnam}. You might be eternally interesting or boring.

 

Would you leave me to go live in another country without telling me? Would you tell me you have no affection for me? Or would you come up with something truly original, something that causes me pause and grand crying spells that make people uncomfortable (and that Bryan will gracefully explain away: “MedicatedLady crazy” or “She forgot her medicine” or “ML is in her dark place right now”)?

 

These questions will have to wait as I feel fat. I don’t want to lose you, but I feel that meeting up is eminent or imminent and of course, that is not an option when one is fat. Or maybe I’ll convince myself it is an option as I enjoy self-injurious behavior and your judgment would be no less than what I deserve.

 

Love always, so long as you make it hurt**,

ML

 

*You as in the composite of a couple menfolk. You as in plural menfolk. Understand?

**”Make it hurt” is a Bryan-patented phrase that I use daily because it’s a great line. Understand? This post is password-protected but I still encourage you go to poeticgrin.com for your own enjoyment.