Dear Cunt,

I’m back to writing to you. I’ve started writing to so many people and they are simply not as important. Not as fucked up. No one is really. No one quite comes as close to how beautifully crumbled and unable to live any longer as you do.

So I write to you. Even when I’m too lazy, even when my only way of writing is my phone. I stab you with these horrible letters. Again and again. I’m not even hoping you kill yourself. As a matter of fact, I really hope you won’t kill yourself. Please don’t. Who will I destroy with my words? Who will I hurt? How will I live with my venom? You complete me.

I want to tell you something that will hurt. (Don’t I always, though?) The reason you are not happy is yourself. The reason you are single is yourself. The reason you can’t fucking love anyone in that way is, again, yourself. You fuck yourself with everything that could go well. You grab it, strangle it and then fucking piss all over it. And then cry.

I’m not saying this to help. I could never help you. Fucking hell, no one could. I’m saying this purely to fuck you up. To make you understand, once and for all that you are nothing. Useless, hopeful romantic at heart, still waiting for that perfect life that will not come. Of course it won’t fucking come. It doesn’t exist. And if it does, it doesn’t happen to people like you; it doesn’t happen to people like us. We’re too fucked up for “perfect”.

I could argue that “perfect” is boring, but “perfect” is perfect and trying to convince you otherwise will only end up in two things: a) you would cling to the notion and keep lying to argue in favour of it; and b) that would mean helping you and we really can’t have that, can we?

Go back to bed, today is just as fucking wrong as always. No, sorry. Let me rephrase that: today you are just as fucking wrong as always.

Best hopes (none at all, really),

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