IV
4:08 p.m.

Kev -

Last time you were here, I asked you (and I had trouble doing it, because it wasn't the question I really wanted to ask), "Why are we friends?" I forget what you answered (something to the tune of "because we are, do we need a reason?"), but I thought at the time that you understood what I really wanted to say: why do you still keep in touch with me?

You don't know much about me, really - you know from our first few chats that I'm cynical and sarcastic, which we share. You know I'm musically educated (could you ever stand to spend time with anyone who didn't get your "Agnus Dei" jokes?); you know I write music, though far less lofty music than yours. You know I work my ass off to make a living, so I can steal a few minutes to chase my dreams (the ones you're following in true starving artist fashion). You know I'm a great listener, and that I take all of your "crazy ideas" seriously; you know that I read palms and my parents are divorced just like yours are.

But you don't know me, really, not in the important things (and of course, I mean more than the highly important "socks in bed" issue). I think if you did, you'd drop your perfect, angelic, goody-goody girlie. Because someone as deeply flawed as you, you Shakespearean-esque tragic hero, you...well, you can't fix yourself by marrying perfection - you need to find yourself a complimentary set of tragic flaws.

Er, well...I guess I'm saying that's where I could come in handy...

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