Dear... Shrek
I like you. I like texting you, I like talking to you, I like making out with you in service elevators. I like yelling at you to give me hickeys (even when you refuse). I like when you put your fingers on my lips when you need me to shut up. I like your sense of humor and your unrestrained desire for adventure. I like the way you smell, and the way you hold me, the way you touch me. I even find it cute that we confuse each other too much to have a real conversation sober. I love that you understand my AIDS. Even though I tried to hate you for you-know-what (and your other extremely gay qualities), I realized that I was more scared you’d hate me instead; I genuinely don’t have it in me to do anything except like you. We connect: I feel like I’ve known you forever. And because of that, spending the past couple of weeks with you has been so much fun. The crazy shit we did is completely and utterly unforgettable, even though getting questioned by the cops and Joseph Medrano may have given me permanent PTSD. I'm grateful you found the balls to kiss me, even with Patrick Starr looming in the horizon, and I'm grateful you gave me a more thrilling, more exciting week than I could've ever imagined. I'm grateful it all happened.
But here’s the thing… I can also see myself liking you even more, to the point where everything that happened makes my heart hurt. Makes me regret everything. I didn't even realize that was possible until hearing your (drunk) voice say my name on the phone all the way from a different f**king state sent shivers down my spine. It made me want you even more than that night. I'm scared Shrek: I don’t want my time with you, that was otherwise almost perfect, to be marred with this unfulfillable longing. I want to laugh about the dumb things we did, not cry because they can't happen again, and I want that for you too. I need this to stop before I get to that point, and I - or at least the socially-stilted Henrietta inside me - thinks you do too. So I think this is kinda it for me. I’m signing off. Bye Alcoholic. Thank you for being the uncle ji to my auntie, for my first kiss that was perfect even though that dumbf**k was passed out in the front seat, and most importantly, for introducing me to $13.99 boxed moscato from Meijer. I’ll be thinking of you every time I sled down the (grass) hill ;)
Love,
Your favorite pot head
P.S. I know you want to roast me for shitting on your “I don’t want to catch feelings” rhetoric, but technically I haven’t caught them (yet) so I don’t want to hear it. And don't let any of this softy crap get to your head you cocky bastard: I still hate you. (This is me being funny, not passive-aggressive, in case your gayness confuses you again :) )