Dear EatKhash,
When you read me your writing assignment and likened the impulse you feared you may fill in our "situation," to the time you wrote Erika an 8-page love letter a week after sitting behind her in English class, I knew what you meant. You didn't look up to hush me with your eyes; you did me that mercy with your sweet rambling words. She didn't talk to you the rest of high school, you revealed. Then you went on, about a year from now, most of it about women. And here I was, stuck behind you, I'm embarrassed to admit, but I admit it now. I listened to you, ramble some more, confessing it was like middle school all over again, while caught on a tightrope, dangling in the air of a tension I shan't speak. While trying to convince you you're good looking, I meant it, but tried the utmost, the most I could, anyway, to maintain my professional shield. I was just as taken aback by your confessional insight, that even dating back to your school crushes you were objectifying girls through innocent fantasies—yet false identities—as I was with your passion when you fired your sponsor after he said you should pray your ex has the best sex of her life. All the while, though, I couldn't let on, how could I, the question my little heart wants to be asked, from me to you, the question it knows it's true, I'm so much littler than you, how would it be, what would they say? I ask you, then, was it that you were on guard about your fear, your vulnerability, or were you protecting me from mine? Since then, you've been the little secret growing in my head, and I guess I understand why you argued with me when I revealed I quit being a ballerina after I grew cobweb feet, even though you wouldn't let me show them to you. I became a drug and alcohol counselor, like all other drug and alcohol counselors, and moved into the city full of our kind, those who will later become drug and alcohol counselors. Last night someone unfortunately broke into my car. He—and this is why, I'm assuming—didn't find anything of value, so the individual decided to urinate in the vehicle. He was kind enough to do it on the floor mat, though. C'est la vie. But I'll leave you with this. While taking pictures for the insurance—I'm considerably alarmed by your acting out. Until our next meeting, I don't want to have to lose you. Try eating more vegetables. It might not be worth the effort.
Sincerely,
Your Counselor
When you read me your writing assignment and likened the impulse you feared you may fill in our "situation," to the time you wrote Erika an 8-page love letter a week after sitting behind her in English class, I knew what you meant. You didn't look up to hush me with your eyes; you did me that mercy with your sweet rambling words. She didn't talk to you the rest of high school, you revealed. Then you went on, about a year from now, most of it about women. And here I was, stuck behind you, I'm embarrassed to admit, but I admit it now. I listened to you, ramble some more, confessing it was like middle school all over again, while caught on a tightrope, dangling in the air of a tension I shan't speak. While trying to convince you you're good looking, I meant it, but tried the utmost, the most I could, anyway, to maintain my professional shield. I was just as taken aback by your confessional insight, that even dating back to your school crushes you were objectifying girls through innocent fantasies—yet false identities—as I was with your passion when you fired your sponsor after he said you should pray your ex has the best sex of her life. All the while, though, I couldn't let on, how could I, the question my little heart wants to be asked, from me to you, the question it knows it's true, I'm so much littler than you, how would it be, what would they say? I ask you, then, was it that you were on guard about your fear, your vulnerability, or were you protecting me from mine? Since then, you've been the little secret growing in my head, and I guess I understand why you argued with me when I revealed I quit being a ballerina after I grew cobweb feet, even though you wouldn't let me show them to you. I became a drug and alcohol counselor, like all other drug and alcohol counselors, and moved into the city full of our kind, those who will later become drug and alcohol counselors. Last night someone unfortunately broke into my car. He—and this is why, I'm assuming—didn't find anything of value, so the individual decided to urinate in the vehicle. He was kind enough to do it on the floor mat, though. C'est la vie. But I'll leave you with this. While taking pictures for the insurance—I'm considerably alarmed by your acting out. Until our next meeting, I don't want to have to lose you. Try eating more vegetables. It might not be worth the effort.
Sincerely,
Your Counselor
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