11:34 a.m.

dear amphetamine psychosis,

i wish you hadn't lied to me about nearly everything; where you lived, who you lived with, what you smoked, your age, your friend's name. with the hallogen lamp upon your shoulder lighting up the path that you walk, with the literary parrot saying everything when you talk. meet me at the cemetary gates, your words are not your own. no wonder i thought you were such a creative genius. youre just an idiot savant with a photographic memory, which is useful for ripping off great obscure writers to impress lonely young girls. i still think about you. i want you as a friend still, but an honest friend. because regardless of all your lies, you still understood me on some basic level, and isn't that what love is about. but you used this understanding to formulate the perfect ways to toy with my emotions. i just have no idea.

love,

claudette colbert's nipples

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