Andrea,

I'm writing to you because I'm not going to your wedding so I'll probably never see you again. I mean, not that you would want to or care to. I'm not typically a skeptical person, but I know an afterthought when I see one. Or when I get a hand drawn wedding invite weeks after being ghosted.

You're probably wondering why I'm being so passive aggressive with you. I wondered that too, but then I asked myself if by the time you read this line, you reread the first paragraph because you proably didn't even detect any traces of affliction in my sloppy handwriting. Did you compare the script in the dozens of letters I wrote before? Do you notice how much deeper the indentation is in this one? There's no heart next to your name. There's no looping curves, or swirls, or little mindless doodles, or micro poems that once garnished my feelings for you.

Do little boys get drunk, Sis? I bet the korean suburbs never sounded so turbulent. But that's your flaw. I languished day after day in my emotions. I marinate in my own misfortune, because I'm society's decrepit, though I once had the potential to become something better.

Is that why you stopped replying after letter 4? When I told you sleeping is the blanket shielding me from my monsters did you look on because I still need a blanket, or because you were too weak to fight them off?

One thing I realized, while you were offline, was that I tend to blame others for my problems or associate my misfortunes or issues with uncontrollable realities. For example I never told you this, but I have a porn addiction. Not just any old used baggage either. My tastes are unique, because while someone on my phone is getting rawed, my head is thrown back and I can't catch my breath either. I'm in sync with the moans, with the thigh slapping, the final, definite orgasm, and then my screen goes black and I'm sticky and disatisfied, because I don't order samplers. I crave the full entree for myself.

So that's what I did. Porn became disgusting to me because it was forced, and I got no real pleasure out of other people's happiness.

I met a girl who when she looked at me I became a bowl of water and she was gonna lap all the fluid I possessed within me. I was going to give her everything I had and not care if she sold it to Goodwill, or mixed it with her own shit in a litterbox. I wanted to squeeze out every ounce of love I had on her face and on her breasts and then paint a future where her and I could forget about the would be lovers and risky messages we sent at odd hours to obscure genders. We would forget about the times we were scammed, the times we were stood up, or thrown down too forcefully, choked, raped.

I loved her those couple days. With every drop of sweat and every fire in my ass I loved her. The cellulite, the freckles, the big nose, everything you weren't. Everything pretty about you I sneered at and craved the opposite. And I loved her so much I didn't give any thought to my own needs. My skin wasn't speckled purple with her lips. My skin wasn't massaged by her fingers, wasn't carressed by her body, save for the moments our thighs or lips kissed. I didn't even come.

She zipped up, packed up, and I didn't even get a handshake good bye.

I realized that some time later while simmered in alcohol.

I realized, that I was a disgusting person, and no one wants to be branded with a rusty iron. No one wants to be associated with a defect, with the inept. You're a woman of God and that's were we came from, according to you. But somewhere in the recesses of your skull I'm a lower life form and you couldn't find a big enough cage for me so you adorted mission.

I was never the pure child you initially thought. I guess you realized that too.

Enjoy your wedding. Sorry I couldn't make it.

Signed,

Yours at one point.