It Is You

 

It is no one else  I see

except you

when I feel you stir inside me.

Your heated breath on my neck

sends shivers down my spine

and the placement of your palm

on my hip

ignites the fire deep within.

Because you know that,

to me,

sex is just sex,

The way your hand

gently guides my face

to look at you

as you ease yourself into me

again and again

endears you to me,

and I love you just a little bit more

as I gaze into your eyes

and watch you come.

A Letter to My Mother

Since my blog is the reason my parents haven’t talked to me in over half a year, it seems only right that I would post the letter I’ve written to my mother this day.

To Mom,
I know it has been a long time since we’ve talked, but honestly, I haven’t known what to say. The last time we spoke, you were concerned about my mental health, but would take no responsibility for the reason I am the way I am. I read the letter you sent me, and Aunt Bonnie and Gramma have mentioned just a few things you guys have discussed in conversation concerning me, and I realize a lot of my feelings toward you and dad are because of things that happened long ago, but they did happen, and helped to shape who I am, whether you want to admit or not.
I know that you planned me. I know that you both gave me everything you could as I was growing up. You showed me how to have faith in God, and I always do and will,  despite the fact that dad thinks I’m “fallen so far from the Lord.” Believe me, my faith is the only thing that kept me from killing myself when I was a teenager, or doing something worse.
I appreciate that you loved me so growing up, and did what you thought was best for me, which is why I refrained from telling you both about my blog. I respected you enough to shield you from the things that would have caused you pain or sadness, but I realize now that not being straightforward with you wasn’t honest, so I will be honest in this letter.
I know that you and dad both felt you made mistakes with the past relationships you had. Which is maybe why it was that your three older children felt mistreated or unloved. I can understand why my sister would have been jealous of me, because I know the pressures felt by being the “good child”. I understand why you felt you had to keep me distanced from my brother, though I don’t agree with it. I am blessed to have a brother who loves me so unconditionally, because his is a love I have never felt from another human in my life. He really is my best friend, and I understand his depression.
I have no children of my own, and that’s an whole other issue, but I know that a child is supposed to be the MOST important thing in a person’s life, other than God. That doesn’t mean you have to agree with the way they live their lives, or approve of them in any way, but I know that you are supposed to love your child(ren) unto the ends of the earth and back, and in such a way that they feel loved, and feel good enough, and feel that they can tell you anything.
I know I was a child long ago, and the things that happened then shouldn’t be of any consequence now, but I think of my childhood every day. You tell me I was planned, but clearly you and dad did not discuss my raising to the extent that you discussed my existence, because I remember many many times when dad disciplined me with pieces of wood that splintered and broke with the force of his rage, while you pretended he was not taking his anger out on me instead of you. I remember when you both found condoms in my room, and dad literally threw them in my face and told me that “no one would ever want me again” since I was no longer a virgin. I don’t have to have a kid to know I would never, ever stand by and allow anyone to say such a thing to my child, even if it was my husband, and even if I did agree with him.
I mentioned that I contemplated suicide when I was a teen. Perhaps depression is a hereditary thing, and maybe I have it, but I can tell you that ever night when I thought about it, it was because I wasn’t allowed to do much as a teen. I don’t mean being allowed to go out and party and kiss boys and get into trouble; dad was sooo concerned about the state of my virginity that he took me out of school, and wouldn’t allow me to stay at my friend’s house because she had a brother who had friends. I will tell you, you two raised me well enough to guard my body from those who would defile it until I was definitely old enough to know the consequences of my decisions. In fact, when dad was so worried about my sex life, I was innocent enough to tell Jeremy I might never want to have sex. I was with him for a year and a half before we ever had a physical relationship, and that was after I had already left home. (I know you both think I dated him before that, but you are so wrong.) This is what I have learned: sex does not make a person who they are, and virginity or the lack thereof should not make another person treat that person like a non-human. Dad has treated me that way.
That was long ago, and you’re right- it doesn’t matter now. But I have learned that while I can forgive someone for such things, I see no reason to include such people in my life. You are my mother, and I will always love you, and I understand that you think dad is the love of your life. Maybe he is, but I know from experience that he does not treat you like a queen as a husband should, and does not treat you like his most precious gift, which you are. Do you want to know why he and I don’t get along? Because I am just as stubborn as he is, and I refuse to accept the way he treats you. He demeans you in front of people, and there is no call for that, because you are the sweetest woman I have ever known. You deserve to be near your family if you want to be, and you deserve respect from your husband. If you think you have that, then as I said before- I am glad for you. But I see the way he treats you when you both come to visit, which is why I no longer wanted to have contact with him years ago.
I love. Love is everything to me, and love given to me is reciprocated ten-thousandfold. I love my extended family, because they have shown me love always, even when they might not have agreed with me, and have always hoped that I achieve my dreams. Dad, my father, has never even been interested in what my dreams were, unless they had everything to do with God. Dreams and goals can still include God without having to be such things as missionaries and pastor’s wives. God has given me a talent for writing, and music, and painting; what I do with it is my choice, which is also something God has given to me, as he has to us all.
I love this world that God has placed me in, and I love the gay people who are in it, because God created them too, and made so many of them amazingly flamboyant and beautiful. I love all kinds of music, because God gave men the ability to write such things. I love my beloved, my Rockstar, because he is a good father and he has the talent that God gave him to be able to play the guitar without knowing how to read music, and has given him the passion and the patience to deal with and try to understand my fucked-up self, even though he doesn’t understand my sadness at all. I love that God placed me in a church that is my family’s church, and put so many people there that appreciate my talent, even if it is a church that dad doesn’t approve of for no reason at all. I have received more love from the Methodist Church in 7 years than I ever received in every Baptist church we attended as I was growing up. There is no evil in that.
Concerning my blog: when I started it, I knew not what I was going to do with it, but I knew I wanted to hone my writing skills. Through the comments and the readers I’ve received since I’ve had it, I have been able to understand myself better, and I my confidence in my talent has grown considerably. I know not that if I ever finish writing any of the many books I have started writing, people will read them, and enjoy doing so. I am more honest in my blog about my experiences than I ever have been in real life, and that has made me be more honest in real life. Sometimes, though, the truth does hurt, as I’m sure most of this letter does. This too, is not an evil thing.
I am going to stop writing this letter now, because I have said enough, I think. I am sorry if I have cause you heartache in the past months, and I hope you can forgive me. I love you, mommy, and I just want you to accept me, flaws and all.
Love, Sparkle

Different

Before

Trinyx stayed just under the surface of the waves, watching the beautiful creature with the bouncing hair react to the lecherous older one. She worried when she saw the angry expression cross the young human’s face, wondering what had angered him so, as she watched him shove the other man out of the way. Trinyx felt as though her very self was being pulled toward the handsome boy as he stomped angrily away from the ship’s rail, until she noticed a splash in the waves next to her. She moved away in disgust when she realized what it was- one of the other less-attractive humans was leaning over the side of the ship, retching into the sea. She was filled with fury that he was polluting her ocean in such a way, and wanted to jump up and  grab the man, pull him into the water, and swim down to the deepest depths with him where she knew he would perish. Instead, she swam close to the body of the ship, and indignantly banged her tail against the wood several times.

As she swam away toward her home, she looked back, and saw several of the men looking confused and leaning over the ship’s rail, peering into the water, wondering what sort of fish had rammed their boat. Trinyx glimpsed the dark-haired man too, who seemed to be looking directly at her, though she knew it was too dark for him to see that far. She lifted her pale hand in a useless gesture, and thought she imagined the man raise his own hand in return. The waves moved    her, and she pushed her tail against them , diving into the night-black water.

Far below the moonlit surface of the ocean, Trinyx slowed her movements, realizing how close she had been to a human. She thought of how soft his hair had been between her fingers, and how it had sprung so lightly from them. She weaved her fingers between the ropey lengths of her own hair that was billowing out around her, and let it go, watching it lazily drift in the leftover currents of her swimming. A few small fishes glides through it, and she swatted them away, perturbed.

She felt melancholy now, now that she had felt the air on her thick skin. She had never felt the pressure of the water surrounding her, but she felt it now, and she wanted to be back against the ship, looking into the expressive eyes of the alluring young man again. She thought of him and wondered if his skin would feel like hers, and she ran her hands down her torso, over her breasts and down her belly, until she felt scales that led into a lengthy tail. She looked at her tail, the tail that was the envy of her sisters, with it’s rainbow of purple and green and silvery scales, and decided it was not at all beautiful. Her fingertips felt over the coarse scales, and she wanted to feel what it was like to stand on two legs like the humans on the ship had.

The man’s eyes had been one color, and though she had never seen her own, she knew from looking into her sisters’ faces that mermaid eyes were an ever-changing kaleidoscope of colors, and she thought to herself how uninteresting that was- as she had watched the man, she could see within his eyes a flurry of emotions, whereas when she watched her sisters, the constant color shift in their eyes made it completely impossible to know what they were thinking.

She had let the man’s sounds wash over her; how different they had been from her own! From the things her grandmother had told her, human voices were terrible to listen to, and humans themselves were seemingly possessed when offered a mermaid song, but Trinyx had liked the sound of his words- they were not melodious as a mermaid’s, no, but still pleasing to the ear in their own way.

She fingered the silver chain that was tied in her hair, and pushed the little button that had released the tiny door. She cried out when she saw that the picture inside was beginning to disintegrate already, and she shut it again quickly, hoping to preserve the likeness of the woman who looked like her human. She gripped the locket tightly to her chest, and was amazed that she cared so for this man, this creature who was so unlike her. She swam in circles, wondering what she was to do now.  Bubbles and fish floated out of her way as she did so. She was forbidden to have contact with the upper world, but there was one thing she knew for certain- she had to see him again.

 

Summer of Love

There are times when I can be an absolute bore. Or boar, depending on the day. I know it’s quite impossible for you to believe it, after all I’m so sparkly and witty and all, but all those sparkly witticisms can take a toll on a person, so much so, that all she wants to do is sit and read. (To be honest, that’s really all I want to do on my non-witty days too.)

Anyhoo, I , perhaps unwittingly, made a decision that I would no longer be waiting for the good times to happen, and that I would forcibly cause them to happen. Which is why I made a point to go with my Rockstar to his boring -ass late-model races this summer, and the zoo, with my friend from work (where we witnessed giraffes copulating for the mere seconds that I guess it takes), went to see my favorite band in the ghettos of Spring Lake Park (more on that later) and am working on a fabulously legendary costume for the Renaissance Festival which I shall attend with my Delightful.

This may seem like small and uninteresting turds to some of you, who travel the world and dine with kings and such, but considering that this was the first summer in 3 years when I’ve actually been able to get out of work occasionally, it is huge. I may even get to go to the South Dakota State Fair. (Which I only want to attend to see if their deep-fried goodnesses are a rival for Minnesota’s.)

In order to keep my Rockstar’s daughter from being bored at her mother’s while we slave away at work during the days, she goes to S.D. to visit her grandparents, so she hasn’t been around much since school let out. There was a few days where I got myself out of my selfish reading slump enough to take her to the beach, and then there was today.

I was not exactly thrilled at first when my Rockstar suggested that I watch his Daughter on my half-day off yesterday, but then I thought of all the wonderful things we two could do together. Apparently, the Daughter had been racking her brain too, for she woke me up with a schedule. It was to be like school, complete with bathroom breaks and recess. I acquiesced to her request, and off we went.

I wondered how long it would take her ADD self to realize that a half hour of quiet time (her idea, mind you) was too long, and I was right on target when 15 minutes went by and she was ready to go outside. We went, and she realized her friends were out, so Teacher Daughter  said I was “allowed to read” while she “did important teacher stuff.” I obeyed.

Our “field trip” for the day was a walk to McDonald’s to meet my Rockstar for his lunch break. We realized we had left entirely too early, and decided to take silly pictures of ourselves along the way, which resulted in a fit of giggles. After a healthful lunch of French fries and sugar-filled soda, we walked back, marching in time to each other, and busting out laughing when we weren’t.

I’ve come to realize this having a non-Daughter is not as tough as it sometimes seems.

Drunk I May Be

But feelings I still have.

The fact seems to have escaped my Rockstar.

After a non-grueling day as a Pizza Slut, I arrived home and proceeded to get pleasantly buzzed, thanks to a little (or big) bottle of 99 Apples.

My Rockstar and I sat down and amiably zoned out on a TV show we both enjoy; I cooked him a drunken grilled Cheese, my specialty, ( a grilled cheese slightly askew made with love and Colby Jack cheese), when all of a sudden, his Daddy Dear called. I decided to play a funny, and while he conversed with his male creator, I proceeded to don his newly washed swim trunks over my yoga capris, and my only-minutely small bra over the tank top I was already wearing. I reaped a smile, and perhaps a squashed man-giggle, before he bid adieu to his daddy. I mentioned the obvious swim trunks, when he decided to be his ass-faced self.

“Yeah, my pants used to fit you.”

I admit here that I have gained only two pounds since I last tried his pants on for fun, and so I took this as an affront. (Even more so due to my drunken state.)

I have never once professed to be a skinny-minny; in fact, the opposite is true. I admit to fatness on a daily basis, though I appreciate the times when  people decide to disagree with me. HOWEVER, I may not be a Mena Suvari, but I care (at least sometimes) about other people’s feelings, and would never tell my semi-cute girlfriend with the big boobs that she was less than perfect. That is for people who are jealous of her to do.

‘Tis true that I am more than a little inebriated, but I can still spell inebriated without spellcheck, which means my feelings can still be hurt. And so I persevered in ignoring him for the remainder of the evening, which only resulted in his going to bed early. Fuckin’ A.

Who Are You?

“Who are you?”

That was the first question in

Mcleod’s Getting To Know Yourself.

Ironic, isn’t it,

that a book that’s supposed to

help you find yourself expects you to tell it

who you are?

I could write my name in the blank line,

but I’m sure that’s not what Mcleod meant-

since there are seven more blank lines.

I look up at the ceiling,

pondering.

Who am I?

I wonder aloud.

Just then,

I notice the sparkles on the ceiling I’m looking at.

I’ve lived here for three years and never realized

I’ve been living under an artificial Home Depot sky.

I come back to the task at hand.

I put pen to paper-

the handwriting I hate that is mine comes out in a

beautiful fuschia gel shade.

I am a person who talks to herself,

gets distracted by sparkly things,

and is, at times, completely un-observant.

I nod, satisfied.

I think Mcleod would approve.

I continue.

I am terrible at making decisions.

I pause.

But once I make one, I do not change my mind.

Not entirely true,

since I was once married,

and am no longer.

What Mcleod doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

That reminds me.

I am someone who cheats.

No.

I am someone who cheats. I have cheated in past lives, but not in this one.

Much better.

Now on to the nitty gritty.

The thoughts come faster than I can write

and I forget a few.

I am a mother, but have no children.

I long for a father, but refuse to forgive the one I have.

I love alone time, but am terrified to be abandoned.
I work hard, but am irrevocably lazy.

I believe in God, but I think He can be an asshole sometimes.

I want to be a writer, but find every excuse not to write.

I am amazingly stubborn, yet I compromise more than anyone else I know.

I am the saddest girl there ever was,

yet everyone that knows me say,

“How happy she is!”

That’s the one that always gets me.

Unforgettable, cunt, beautiful, odd-looking, sexy, dorky, talented, loser, amazing,

These are all words others have used to describe me;

I cannot help but wonder who it is they are talking about.

When I look in the mirror,

I am just me.

I read everything I’ve just written.

Contradictions, every single one.

I toss Mcleod’s Getting To Know Yourself on the floor, irritated.

How are you supposed to know who you are when

everything about you is a paradox?

I look back up at my imitation stars.

I think a moment,

about all that I have done,

the people I have known,

the lives I have lived;

then resolutely, I pick up Mcleod’s self help book.

I scribble a little on the corner of a page

to make sure my fuschia pen still works

before I write one more thing.

I am Love.

 

 

 

 

 

The Woman In His Life

I had a good talk with my beloved brother yesterday.

I’ve mentioned him on occasion, but because of my early onset of Alheimer’s that I seem to be suffering from this week, I do not recall exactly what I have written about him.

My brother is the product of my flaky mother and her first asshole husband. (Which technically makes my brother only my half-brother, but we shall not split hairs- mainly because the ones on my head are already split.) Let us just say that because of the tender age my mother was when she gave birth to my sibling, he did not receive the care he perhaps may have gotten if she had been 30 and fully matured. He was 12 when I was born, and excited to have a beautiful baby sister who was me.

I was far too young to remember much about the time he lived with us before my dad kicked him out for smoking pot, but I remember fondly the brotherly love he bestowed upon me- namely, flicking the end of my nose, (that hurt like a bitch!) and swatting my ass with a flyswatter after I repeatedly spit on his leather jacket, which I did only to show off to his friends. I did not get know truly know him until I was 18 and out of the house, because my parents treated him as a pariah, and were afraid he would be a bad influence on me. (As if I wasn’t a bad enough influence on myself.)

My Brother had a nervous breakdown at his last job, around the time I got to know him, and was diagnosed with depression and some other mental issues I fail to recall at this time. I remember the first time I went to visit him after not knowing him for most of my life, and found that he was not a normal person- mainly because he was much kinder, and more sensitive and loving than the normal people who go around only caring about themselves every day. We fast became friends, despite being complete opposites- he was raised with no structure while I was raise in an invisible churchy prison; he has no job while I have for the most part worked overtime my entire working life; I have a faith I believe firmly in, while he hasn’t an idea what to believe.

Because we did not exactly grow up as brother and sister conventionally do, we have many conversations that I’m not sure normal siblings have. We talk of love, and sex, and dreams. He told me of the one woman he truly loved, a 350 lb. black woman who he had worked with and gone to movies with who had been 15 years his senior. I told him of my deep desire to have children, and of how we should start a band, because he plays drums and I piano, and we both adore music.

When I was with my ex-husband, he could not understand why I visited my brother so often. “He doesn’t have a job” and “He lives off of disability” were his repeated statements. I tried to explain to him that a job (or lack thereof) does not make a person who they are, unless they intend it to be that way. While I do not necessarily carry a deep devotion to family, I see my brother as my brother, whether he has a job or smokes alotta weed or is depressed more than the average person.

About 9 months ago, my brother told me he met a girl, and I was ecstatic for him. It did not take me long, however, to realize from what he told me that this bitch was a crazy useless ‘ho, who perhaps unintentionally was preying on my brother’s sensitivity. I could not hide my dislike for her when he introduced her to me- after I left she was quick to ask my brother if I hated her.

I’ve not had a lot of time to go visit my brother in the last months, but we’ve talked on the phone enough for me to know he’s had a tough time letting go of this insane chic, but when I talked to him yesterday, he calmly told me he has come to a conclusion: He is convinced that I am the woman in his life.

His statement is not to be thought of in disgusting incestual terms, for he means it not in that way at all. All he meant is that I am the one woman who has always been there for  him, and never let him down, and never expected anything from him except for him to be himself. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that he has been that to me as well. He always is happy to see me, and expects naught from me except my sisterly love.

Incidentally, I’ve been together with my Rockstar for 3 years, and he has yet to meet my brother, “the man in my life.” Don’t ask me why, because I know not the reason.

Some Days Just Suck

Sometimes there’s no eloquent way to say “Life blows” and “Fuck this shit.”

Yesterday was one of those days.

You would think, wouldn’t you, that being asked to paint a 101 Dalmatians mural on a yet to be born babe’s nursery wall would throw One into pleasant hysterics. I must admit I was flattered and excited that a coworker trusted me enough with such a task without ever having seen any of my artwork.

Sadly, my day began badly when my Rockstar decided to go to work without presenting me with the obligatory kiss goodbye as I slumbered merrily on. I awoke to hurry on my way to begin my Disney masterpiece, with a irritated text to my Rockstar asking him exactly what he wanted from me, since we seem to be in the exact same place as we were three years ago. (Minus the three-times-a-day- mindblowing sex and the endless back and forth flirty texting.)

I had one Dalmatian puppy nearly complete when I received a reply- “I can’t get you to engage with or act like a stepmom to my kid, so you figure out what the hell you want.”

Clearly, the man is delusional and must be immediately  incarcerated in a comfortable and well-monitored padded cell. (The padding is for his own safety, as the ass-kicking he so rightly deserves from me is near to fruition.)

In the last three years, I have cooked for my Rockstar and his child; I have entertained her when I’m not at work so he can sit on his ass and watch NASCAR or the retarded Vikings; I have attended every school program and awards ceremony her school has had; I have drawn pictures with and for her, written stories for her to practice reading with, bought her an endless supply of books she could not possibly get through, explained (in short) where babies come from, and I have taken the time to listen to her tell me what she so secretly has written in her diary, and that she prefers the name Jessica over her own given name because it sounds more “grown-up.” It is true I have not always treated her as my own child (mainly when she is reminding me that she is NOT my own child and doesn’t have to listen to me) but I have been around enough to realize she is very like me- a fact that she herself has been quick to point out. If these things are not “stepmom-ish”, I do not think this ten year old child would have just a few weeks ago asked me to “be her mom, because my mom sucks.”

I am stubborn; I promise you that you have never met someone more stubborn than I. So it is not a small thing that I fully and completely have given up on my Rockstar. It is crystal clear that in his eyes, I will never be the “perfect” stepmom he thinks I should be. (Or the perfect cook he also thinks I should be.)

I am sad enough about my decision that I broke down in the middle of my one-on-one meeting with my boss this morning (to which his response was “Do you need a hug?” The man knows me well.) Yet I do not doubt that my decision is the right one. I am amazing (at least a little bit), and I do not have to prove my worth to any man, woman, or alien.

I am sad for my former Rockstar, for he has reached that stage that so many burnt out Rockstars reach- that of finding out what it’s like when the party is over and they are left all alone. All I have to say is it was once an awesome song.

A Valediction to Chris Meloni

My pulchritudinous Christopher,

I have come to the heartbreaking conclusion that this shall be the last letter I shall ever compose to you.

“But why, my sweet luscious Sparklebumps?” You ask? (Or more correctly, you so blatantly do NOT ask.)

I must admit, my (or not mine) amazing specimen of a man, that the thought of never again typing up a letter of blatant lust to you has got me a bit misty-eyed, but no- I cannot go on as we have. (Or have not.)

I cannot help but notice that my multiple attempts to gain your attention have, in fact, received no attention at all from you. My birthday post for you HERE and my first confession of love HERE lack the sufficient comments from you necessary for me to continue my unrequited love for you. Despite the numerous offers of boobie squishes I have promised you upon our initial meeting, you remain ever distant- living with that very tall wife of yours and scowling beautifully without any thoughts of me whatsoever. I cannot bear it, Chris.

Though I do not consider myself high-maintenance, I have been assured by a number of the male species that I do, at times, require excessive attention. Since I have received not one iota of attention from you, I do no think that I am being unreasonable in ending our bond; it was doomed from the very start.

I will no longer dream of your strong Stabler arms around me, nor shall I pine to stretch myself to the very max to reach your very kissable lips with my own. (Which would be completely impossible anyway, since I haven’t shoes tall enough to make ME tall enough.) No more shall I imagine you scowling at me in your very Christopher way when I have denied you my delicate lotus-like privates. (Which is also quite incredible, as I would never deny you anything, my dearest Bald Man.)

I hope with this, my last goodbye, you feel anguish at never having experienced my magnificent boobage in all its glory, and contrition over never having donated your sperm to me in such a way that would produce little Mini Mes and Yous. (Our unborn children wail in grief.) It brings me great sadness that your hardened manhood shall never find its way into my mouth, for I surely have wanted to know exactly how many licks it would take….

Know this, my once darling Chris, my future love life shall ever be slightly grim and jaded, even if I have moved my attentions on to Sean Bean.

For Never Yours,

Sparklebumps

A Drunken Letter To Sean Bean

My Dearest Most Sexy (Though slightly old and wrinkled) Sean Bean,

I am completely in love with you.

I realize this may come as a complete shock since I have never before even hinted of my surprising lust for you, but let me be frank- I have downed a half a bottle of whiskey, and my passion can no longer be contained.

You have starred in all my favorite films: Black Beauty, Don’t Say A Word, Troy, and let us not forget the first installment of Lord of the Rings. How I wished for you to long after me as you did the One Ring, or as Smeogel said it best “My Precious”.

I must admit I didn’t recognize you, my Shining Star, in Equilibrium (Because I was lusting after Christian Bale) and Ronin (because that lady with the alien eyes was distracting me.) But LISTEN! I have decided you are the only one for me. (Besides for Christopher Meloni.)

I became aware of my burning passion for you when you so perfectly portrayed Eddard Stark in Game of Thrones. To choose honor, or your family, you so rightly chose family, even though your daughter was a little bitch and your aging wife had such homely qualities. (Such as wrinkles and a hint of that Joan Allen person I so despise.)

I must admit that I creeped on you a little bit, and found you on the Wikipedia. While your picture on there is not flattering in the least, I found hope for me, when I read of you personal life, and the fact that you have had many wives. (None of them simultaneaously). (Woo! I used big word when drunk!) Perhaps in your future, you will fall in complete and eternal love with a red head with excessive boobage?

I will be honest (because I drank Windsor) I’m not entirely sure what has drawn me to you, but be assured that my feelings are real. But I must tell you a secret- I know your real name. and it is NOT Sean Bean, But since your fake name carries Dr. Seuss qualities, I shall forgive you, and still offer a booby squish.

If you find it in your heart (or your pants) to provide me with the other-wordly love I desire from you, please let me know.

XOXO, Sparklebumps