Every love letter I ever wrote (I think there were five) has ended in humiliation, horror and probably hilarity. I don't know what possessed me but I know that once the eyes for which they were intended read them, GAME OVER. It's like a jinx with a Groundhog Day twist. I knew EXACTLY what was going to happen but I'm forced to relive it over and over again until I forgot what it tastes like and try it AGAIN, not unlike the yearly unveiling of THE NEW McRIB (IS BACK) (BUT IT'S NEW) (KINDA) (JUST BUY ONE DAMMIT YOU'LL PROBABLY LIKE IT) (OR NOT BUT AT LEAST WE'LL HAVE YOUR MONEY) I fall for it every time and walk away wondering what the hell is wrong with me. I feel the same way about corn dogs. <muses>
There's plenty wrong but I'm not unusual or unique in that respect. There's also plenty right. Be warned that with every new post I'll probably trot out my Greek chorus of friends singing my praises wondering what the hell is wrong with people when it's very simply, nothing. We're all human. I'm not being magnanimous either. It hurts like hell. I'm STILL licking my wounds but at least the pile of Raspberry Zinger wrappers on the coffee table has stopped growing and threatening to engulf my cat Wonton who likes to roll around in its crinkly creamy scented cloud.
It's easy to attract and be attracted. A lot less easy to feel the same way about each other and even less to put up with each other's 'stuff'. Is love any more about embracing all the good, amazing and inspiring than putting up with all the crap that's hanging out like an overstuffed suitcase? And what if you say, "Okay, I'm game. I'll see your laziness, temper and moodiness and raise you anxiety, clinginess and rejection and they look at their hand and go, "I fold," and walk away? You sit there with your cards (or snack-cake wrappers) in your hand wondering, "Wait....WHAT?" and realize that you have to leave cos Happy Hour is over and you don't even have a stinkin' buzz.
The funny thing is that I know I'll write another love letter. Oh right now, I swear I won't. I'm saying, 'Fuck that shit. I'm done" but I'm not wired that way. I gots feelings and when I feels them I really feel them. I wish I didn't run off my mouth or fingers or pen as much but that's part of my charm too. I guess.
I'm just too Mary Freakin' Sunshine to lay down and die. If I'm gonna humiliate myself, it's gotta be with style and class. Okay, maybe just style. Love me or leave me, you'll never forget me because now you have written proof in the form of a letter. You're welcome.
As Bugs Bunny would say, "Exit, Stage Left."