A few days ago someone named “Wayne” put a letter in my book house and it was titled “dear hag” and the letter wasn't very nice. It was on insurance paper of all things. It made me go through all your old letters to me trying to figure out if it was your handwriting and then it just made me sad because you don’t talk to me that way anymore.
If it was you go to the zip code the insurance letter was from. If not say something about birds. I am so depressed. And haunted in a bad way not good way.
The most depressing part of this for me is feeling like a fragile buttercup on the side of the road, and you’re one of the thousands and mireied of things out there that that I don’t know, I can’t trust, that will probably hurt me.
When once upon a time you were everything.
I hope one day I stop talking to the person that doesn’t exist anymore. It’s my fault I don’t have anyone else to talk to. Maybe it is, or maybe it isn’t. You can’t fire someone who isn’t even there.
Ha. I’m so alone. You being mean doesn’t change that.