This is how it goes, my letter to a horrible person I still love:
Dear Dick
I've run out of puff with bullshit artists suddenly. Above all myself (because I'm a bullshit artist too) and YET
Theeere's a level with me of: okay, whatever has happened or is happening, and however bad I might look or feel... I know what's true and it's time for truth. I will have truth now. Nothing else is acceptable. I can't live anymore in a tangled web of pretending things are okay and fair when I know they're not. I'd rather have no-one in my life at all than liars.
I don't care what you've done or not done. There's no need to defend yourself frantically, I've always known you are a bull thrower and I've accepted you on those terms.
I'll accept your bullshit forever probably if you'll just ONCE let me tell you what you've done, and what I've done in order to fool you into thinking I actually believe your nonsense.
I've rumbled you. I thought your bullshit was largely harmless but I know without a doubt it isn't now.
You got me over there becaus I had things you wanted. You got em. Then you manufactured a fight in order to avoid having to reimburse me for anything.
On top of that you call me a monster and so forth.
Get fucked.
You can't trust anyone because you know that you yourself are utterly untrustworthy. You have no imagination, only fair-to-good skills at putting yourself across as imaginative. You can't believe anyone is different to you ... Your world view is stalled forever in "you-ness". That's why you can't read a book anymore, but CAN give a good impression of being a person who reads. Your skills in imitating interest in ideas that aren't your own are state of the art. But they're still tacky. You are a very gifted monkey with a typewriter. You are a golem.
Your act comes unravelled very quickly though when you've not slept for days and especially if you drink. You'r not a "narc": you are too self destructive to be the "architect of despair".
You can't maintain. That's your problem.
I still am fond of you though. Your act is very fucking polished. It's brought me joy.
Dear Dick
I've run out of puff with bullshit artists suddenly. Above all myself (because I'm a bullshit artist too) and YET
Theeere's a level with me of: okay, whatever has happened or is happening, and however bad I might look or feel... I know what's true and it's time for truth. I will have truth now. Nothing else is acceptable. I can't live anymore in a tangled web of pretending things are okay and fair when I know they're not. I'd rather have no-one in my life at all than liars.
I don't care what you've done or not done. There's no need to defend yourself frantically, I've always known you are a bull thrower and I've accepted you on those terms.
I'll accept your bullshit forever probably if you'll just ONCE let me tell you what you've done, and what I've done in order to fool you into thinking I actually believe your nonsense.
I've rumbled you. I thought your bullshit was largely harmless but I know without a doubt it isn't now.
You got me over there becaus I had things you wanted. You got em. Then you manufactured a fight in order to avoid having to reimburse me for anything.
On top of that you call me a monster and so forth.
Get fucked.
You can't trust anyone because you know that you yourself are utterly untrustworthy. You have no imagination, only fair-to-good skills at putting yourself across as imaginative. You can't believe anyone is different to you ... Your world view is stalled forever in "you-ness". That's why you can't read a book anymore, but CAN give a good impression of being a person who reads. Your skills in imitating interest in ideas that aren't your own are state of the art. But they're still tacky. You are a very gifted monkey with a typewriter. You are a golem.
Your act comes unravelled very quickly though when you've not slept for days and especially if you drink. You'r not a "narc": you are too self destructive to be the "architect of despair".
You can't maintain. That's your problem.
I still am fond of you though. Your act is very fucking polished. It's brought me joy.