it is thanksgiving and it is your birthday and my room is a fucking mess.
if your room isn’t clean by 5, you’re not coming to thanksgiving dinner, my mom said. i think she was half-joking half-serious. i’m sitting on the edge of my bed texting you some long paragraph about how grateful i am for you and it is 11 am so i have 6 hours left.
what will i do in those 6 hours? stare at the wall and let my mind wander off to its favorite places? have it walk from you to you, take the bus from you to you, ride a bike around the block from you to you? my mind is so comfortable when it is on you. sweet, i think. my mind mirrors my body.
dear matt, i have it think. my heart has these strings and you pull on them daily. it irritates the fuck out of me. i’m not used to having my heartstrings pulled on yet you manage to do them without saying a word. i am 98% water and when you look at me with those stupid big brown doe eyes you make me want to empty myself out. maybe become the reason for the dew on the grass in the morning or the water levels rising. does that make any sense? at this point i don’t care if anything makes sense because it’s all a headfuck. you headfuck me. i’m so fucking whipped dude you’re driving me insane.
dear matt, i think. you are better than all of this. there is a world we are living in and it is slowly being destroyed because of people who don’t think twice about their actions. if it were up to me i would have us move to neptune just because it is my favorite planet. just you and me. i’d build us our own rocket, i’d make us our own space food, i’d write you a thousand letters while on the journey there. come, i want to write, come with me. we will go where nobody has gone before. will we have spacesuits when we get there, you ask? nah. you can be my spacesuit. let us make a statue of us, let us make it so big they can see us from earth. let them think damn, those two. they’re better than all of this.
dear matt, i think. you are to me like cigarettes are to my dad. i told him to quit a long time ago but he refuses to. they have become a part of his daily routine, they have become a part of him. every time he breathes in they are alive and well in his lungs. you are so goddamned addicting. like holy shit i feel like whenever i breathe there is this mess of you in my system and it feels so fucking good. it’s addicting as fuck but i fucking love it. my dad is 71 and he has no sign of lung cancer, don’t worry, we’ve checked again and again, and even doctors are telling us that it seems too good to be true. if that is the case then i’ll keep taking you. even though cigarettes are bad for some people they don’t cause cancer in others.
dear matt, i think. i really have to fucking clean my room. you see, you let my thoughts go off for a good 15 minutes (it’s only 11:15) and you consume all of them. all of this was freewriting, i didn’t edit, didn’t pause, just let them flow. 15 fucking minutes and you’re all i think about. what more if i let myself go on for 6 hours. i end my text to you with a “happy birthday you bitch. you’re my favorite,” and throw my phone under my pillow.
now, i think. i’m hungry. time to put in work.