I don’t know why I continue to make your life Hell. I have always hated your guts. You are the most evil, fucked-up person in the world. At times, I’ve had thoughts of killing you and leaving you dead in the dust. With rivers of blood streaming from every body part.
You’re OK. And you’re really, really fucked. I love you. I hate you. I can’t decide which. You’re a complete and utter failure at saving humanity or making the world a better place.
And yet, you are my best friend. You’re intelligent, you’re worthwhile. I hope for all the best for you.
It’s just that I can’t see you employed in the foreseeable future. You’re too quirky. You’re not mechanical, or lazy. You have feelings. You have thoughts. You have certain dreams.
I wish there was a Higher Angel around that would tell me to Shut Up and Stop Nagging You. I wish I were perfect. I wish I were married. Lame ass stupid idea, I know. I’m so demanding! I want TO MAKE LOVE. AND HAVE SEX. AND FUCK. I know. Ain’t gonna happen.
Men want porn fantasies. They don’t want real woman who bitch and nag and bleed and fart regularly. In other words, every woman on the planet. Your Mother. My mother. My sister (if I had one). My best friend (I have at least two).
Am I the only white nigger on the planet? Because I sure treat myself like one! Oh, shit. A forbidden word! Quick! Swat it like a fly! It’s like killing Satan. Satan won’t be killed. He’s a part of us. He invented chocolate. I think. Devil’s food. Sounds like a good time just waiting to happen.
I’m not as lily-white as I like to think. I put on a show. I pretend I’m undesirable. Repulsive. Undateable.
But the truth is, I’m Venus. And I know it! I keep that to myself. I never let Aphrodite out of the closet. Except online. It’s that Distance Thing.
I wish there was a way I could make up for all the hell I’ve put myself through! And calling it a life.
Next lifetime? I hope I marry and have children, a real paid job, AND a house and car. Fat chance. I know. It’s too much for me to hope for. I am so unkind to myself.
I wish I could be my own best friend. Real friends don’t let you get away with being cruel to yourself.
Love, Linda Smith
PS Yes, what a weird love letter. It lacks dirty talk, and is free of hopelessly mushy sentiment. NO cornball Star Wars jokes, either. No obscenities. No tits and ass comments. No I want to touch your taco and buy your butt smartass kinda stuff. Why go there? I’d rather stare at your crotch. And give you a blow job with my eyes. It works. Deadly accurate seduction. Not a single inappropriate word uttered! Ha!