Dear Melissa, It Does Not Take A Mathematician, Or Aristotle, To Realize I Am A Direct Descendant Of Zeus Himself

Melissa and Rob met in a graduate writing program and became instant platonic writing friends. But as the semester wore on, Rob decided he could no longer in good conscience deny Melissa the gift of his massive cock (and also, a wind-up music box.) And that is when the trouble began. Melissa brushed off his overture, hoping their friendship could withstand the brief period of misaligned desires. Little did she realize what massive "intellectual insecurity" such a brush-off would reveal to Rob!


Melissa,

I told Vivan I was in the library the other day and sent you a text message, without any context at all, and that you must have thought I was crazy... She said she'd seen you and that I should get in touch with you. I didn't think I wanted to, but here I am. I had a strange night last night and there's a Woody Allen movie on now so maybe I'm feeling sentimental.

I wrote you a letter when we got home from Texas. Drafted it again two days later. I was going to ask you if I could send it to you in Tahoe but the whole thing just didn't feel right. It was the one love letter I write every five years, but it was muddy. There was hate and resentment in it, too, and those are poor ingredients for love letters. So I've done away with the love letter. This note is not going to be one and it's not going to be drafted and rewritten a thousand times. You'll get it as is. And I have no idea why I'm even writing it other than that I'd like to avoid some kind of awkward system where we pass each other in the hall at school, nod hello, and move on without speaking, and both pretend like there's nothing underlying that needs to be settled. And I guess I have something to get off my chest that I don't want to manifest into cancer... So this is what I have to say... To put it bluntly, you make men jump through hoops so you can feel that you're worth the effort. It's infantile and indicative of someone who doesn't have too much experience with love or with men and you need to be called on it. It's silly. The beautiful women of the world, of which you could very well become one some day, are certainly worth a great deal of effort, yes, but not that brand. Just committing to being vulnerable, on our end, is enough, trust me. We all have insecurities. Yours is an intellectual insecurity. I don't know why. Don't bother telling me I'm wrong or that I don't know you. It's transparent. You're smart. And you are beautiful. And you're a terrific writer. You really are. You don't have to crush your men with some kind of wit. It's a stupid custom. And we can't change our intellect anyway, so it's enough to just parade across this world trying to be good people without making those who volunteer themselves to our hearts suffer for our own problems (however inevitable that is in the end).

And the second thing I want to say is this... However clumsy my advance was that night, I was offering you the world. I was offering to save your life, literally, if only for just a second, or a night, or something. Naturally it wouldn't take a mathematician or Aristotle to recognize that an intimate relationship between the two of us would never work... In fact, I don't know who could get by in an intimate relationship with you. Now if you didn't want that from me, that's fine. You acted in such a way - despite receiving one of the most romantic gifts, perhaps, that I'd ever given anyone, a night or two before - that I was able, by some miracle, to put it all behind me immediately. And I mean, "what the hell was I thinking" immediately. You pissed on me that with your belligerent petulance, unloading just an entire world of silly bullshit, all of which wasn't even worth justifying with a response other than picking up my shoes and walking away. And then again... Now I don't care that you told people (yes, plural: people) that I tried to kiss you because I believe we're always accountable for our actions, which got back to me, by the way, instantly. But the fact that you fictionalized the details to make me sound like some kind of necrophiliac creep was just so unforgivably disrespectful, and especially so in the wake of all the affection I'd wasted on you. That hurt more than anything.

You know, I feel like I have all this momentum here but I think that's all I have to say. I thought about you a great deal over the summer. A mix of loathing and confusion - counterbalanced by brighter hues, too. I like my volatile relationships. You need to shed your bullshit - or at least don't spray it on the people you spend time with. And I'm pissed (really pissed) I didn't grab that copy of Naked Lunch before you did. Was that a first edition paperback? I don't remember. If it is, maybe I have something you want to trade for it. Once you speak to me again, that is. I wish I could send you this letter in chapters. There was a love letter half to this once, you know. I think it's all ash now.

Always,
Rob