dexfarkin

I am writing this just to impress you.

Obviously you'll see this here. The white door contrasts nicely. See, contrast. It's like a visual scream. It's not content, but it defines it.

I guess you didn't get the messages. Your machine fills up too quickly, and then the phone just rings and rings. I tried an experiment last week, just incase there was a problem with the ringer. I went to your house and sat under the window and called over the next five hours. Your car was there and I was sure I could hear the bell through your new windows with the extra thick glass. The bars make it look like a prison though.

I guess you didn't get the letters. I bought one of those special express delivery sleeves to make sure that it made it right to you. Your mailman is kind of shifty looking, and I wouldn't put it past him to be hiding my letters to you just to be a prick. I bet he's got a thing for you. It's kinda sad, I know. So I started sending them to your office. I'd put different business names on the front so you wouldn't get in trouble, but I suppose you wouldn't know to open them right away. Must be busy, because you're never home any more.

I guess you didn't get the flowers. Or the gift bag. I know you whould have called to say thanks. I don't think your mother told you that I called her to get in touch with you. She didn't want to talk either. I hear this clicking in the background when she's on the line, like teeth rattling against the plastic.

I guess you didn't feel you needed to say hello, because maybe you're uncomfortable. But you could have. After all, I did get rid of your neighbour, who used to let his dogs bark all hours of the night. I remember when you told me that. We were sitting in the nude on your rug, leaning against the couch and sharing a joint and you said 'I wish he'd just fuck off with those dogs. Man, who's that thoughtless?" He moved away last week, didn't he?

You haven't heard the dogs since the week you decided you needed some space. You could have said thank you.

I know I'm not perfect. I know you almost are. It's not some sick obsession, you know, like those weirdos on daytime television that we used to laugh at. I just wish you could understand that we're so perfect together. I've been helping you with your career. Your manager had to take time off and you are now acting as his replacement for now. The company with notice that, see how much better and important you are then him. His compassionate leave was a little too long anyway. Who needs three months. She's dead, and he's got to live with that.

It's getting dark and I'm tired. It rained earlier, and my hair is all messed up, slicked down my forehead. I hope you understand that I didn't have time to get all cleaned up before coming to you. I wanted to, but the cops are in my apartment right now. I'm sure they'll drop by here, but not before I see you. Before you get to see how much I love you.

The cuts don't hurt anymore, but I'm getting a little dizzy. It's hard to write in this without smearing or letting it run. Maybe I'll have a seat and surprise you as you come up the walk. Don't slip on the puddle. It keeps getting bigger, and I don't want to ruin your shoes.

Blood is a bitch to get out.