How’s it going? I know we hang out nearly every night after work, and it’s good. We’ve shared some stories, haven’t we? Remember that woman we punched just to get sent to jail? And the random and arbitrary slaughtering of livestock? What about the breaking and entering, and the setting on fire of dogs? Good times…
Also, I would be a liar and a churlish rogue if I denied our more intimate moments. I always have a grin on my face as I explore your every curve and dive into your nooks and crannies. You seem to enjoy yourself too, constantly telling me of new hidden depths and increasingly bizarre things you want to do with me. I’m an experimental kind of guy, I hope I kept up. But I can’t go on with this charade. I’m living a lie, and you are too. No gifts of 8% shielding necklaces can hide that. You want too much of me, and that’s wrong. I’ve got to make time for my friends, I’ve got a life to get on track, but you keep demanding my time. Remember when I nearly left you for good, and you dangled Shivering Isles in front of me in that sultry way you do? I came back then, but this time it’s different.
The worst thing about our tryst is that I can’t get you out of my head. I’m speaking about you to everyone I meet, eyes lolling like a lovesick lunatic. Random strangers are being confronted by my ghoulish visage, froth spraying everywhere as I extol your virtues. I am being shunned and scorned, and it is burning me from the inside out. And let’s be honest here, you gave it all away far too easily. I’m not calling you a hussy, but I expected at least a bit of a challenge. Sometimes you would promise something so appetising, I just had to put in the hours to get my juicy reward. And what would happen? It was just a case of repetitive strokes, bashing away with no real purpose, save for the occasional moan.
I’m sorry, but my time is short, and I am running out of ink. I hope you can forgive me, and I promise you that those rumours about Call of Duty 4 and I are lies. Maybe, in a different world, if I had not picked a combat class, things would have been different.
Goodbye, my love.
Paperboy
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