So I heard you wrote about me, again. I understand your need to garner sympathy over what you claim to be “the reality” of what was. But the funny thing is, at the end of the day, that’s just what it is, some story. Some remembrance of a distant memory that will never be balanced out, or fully made known, and could never be seen objectively at the instant it happened. I can barely recall the specific events that led to where we are now. I mean, this hate that you nurse in your heart. How passe’ the cause is at present. I will never and would not dare disqualify your version of the “truth”, for all I have to prove it otherwise is my take on the tale. But why re-explain? Why re-account over and over and over? What can repeating yourself and things do? Right now, neither our retelling of what occurred matter. It’s the past, it’s as good as yesterday’s mouthwash. Doesn’t your mouth taste foul from all its bitterness? I’m not asking you to stop believing what you narrate to yourself daily; I’m asking you to remove my involvement in any of the things you want to say. There is no need for you to make yourself appear better. There is no need for you to glorify the mistakes of our young, stupid years. There is no need to make your love story any more cute than it already is in the face of humanity. We’ve all been entertained once or twice by it, we’ve also been so touched, and that’s that. It’s just not endearing anymore. Please, shhhh.