A few years ago I said I wouldn't write about this extraordinar(ily fucked up) relationship I let myself be dragged through (although I confess I did some dragging myself) because if I just openly published all I had felt and thought on a public forum like this, it would only cheapen the whole thing. Of all the things it was, the last thing it could ever possibly be was cheap.

But I like to think I've learned a little in the past three years. Everything in this time has directed me in the course of finding writing as my strength. Don't get me wrong on this, I know I am a shitty writer. I'm incredibly self-indulgent, incredibly pretentious, and incredibly obscure. I like to use $5 words in places where $.02 words would do (E.B. White would hate me). I have miles to go before I can even call myself a writer, a title I consider with certain levels of respectability. But it’s all I’ve got.

I figure if the rest of the Literature department at my university was going to read about it, why not a bit for the little online friends. A few of you have been with me for the past three years as well.

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It was a wicked wicked thing; & I'm not saying you're solely to blame. I let you paint it all pretty with dizzy lies and half truths. Selected honesty is still a lie.

What exactly did I do to deserve to be treated so harshly by you? I have loved you the best I could; I have loved you something like a disease. I have been, the whole time -- regardless of my own tenderly blistered self, standing on your steps with my heart in my hands. The best friend that I could be to you. It wasn't so much about being in love anymore; it was about this extraordinary friendship that I believed in. The boy I thought I knew would be hurting to know that he is creating so much wreckless ugliness, so much useless pain. But maybe like everyone else said, I didn't know you at all.

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