I've dropped fifteen pounds,
and I am always spelling out my numbers.
Thirty Four. Thirty. Twenty Nine.
Ninety Three.... 1993, I was sixteen and stupid.
I should've told you how I felt,
and what was up.
But, I was a kid, and I'm now
soo glad that I didn't.
In all sorts of fucked up ways, I'm glad it
took me this long to get sober. I'm glad
that you noticed. I'm stunned to be here,
to feel this way. I'm glad you feel the same.
But what the hell, ya know?
It's an honest chance,
We left it to fate. I hate that
word. Fate.
I prefer faith. I'd also perfer us to live in the
same county,
lest the same state.
Or in the same bed,
on a Sunday morning with your panthers for cats
mulling around at our feet. I prefer your smile,
and holding your gimp'd hand on cold nights, until
it turns from its white sheen back to its
normal olived hue.
I'm glad I can again, and I am not going to
let it go.
So have a week that fills you with reward,
I'll have one that is equaled with hope. And
We'll meet together again next weekend.
I got a book for ya that I think you'll like.
It's called
"How I Learned to Stop Farting in Church, and Other Such Reveries"
It's a first draft. the author is an ass hat. And a bad ass'd leather
jacket.
It tells the story of a boy who is happy where he is,
but can not wait for the future.
I'm writing it for you, and in the foward
I'll talk about how you still have
a restraining order against my funny,
how's it been stuck at the Federal
Pen, doing seven to nine. But it writes you letters,
all scrawled about
with Jokes in a wide range, from burglars
to hand gernades. And boobs.
Hrmm, nevermind. It sounds better in person.
I'll just tell you about it then.
I soo can't fucking wait to see you
again.
