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So I sit and listen to Mexican music wonder where you are. Wondering how you are. Trying to ignore the shift-key. Microsoft won't cooperate; auto correct.
I sit and miss you as I sit and write you. I delete and rewrite. Romantic.
I delete the suicide casualness.
I take out the gushy part where I reiterate how much I need you here.
How I want you here faster.
I reword the anecdote about the Bill Withers Song and then just delete the fucker entirely.
I get mad at the spellchecker for keeping track.
Iím terrified you are going to find some reason, somehow, someway to change your mind. To dissolve our ideas, our plans, our futures.
I rewrite and delete the part where I tell you how fucked up my broken hand feels because you already know.
I smashed it again, just for you.
I completely omit the paragraph describing how fucking hard it is to type decently and cry at the same time.
I take a drink.
I think about what to say next but I canít come up with anything. Iím burnt out. I love you I need You. I miss you. Come back to me. Come home to me. I delete this and resurrect it.
I need you, there is no punchline.
Date Written: May 12, 2004
Average Vote: 2.6667