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I send him a message thanking him for giving me Bob Dylan.

He responds, thanking me in kind for Liz Phair.

Later, I wonder if there is anything beyond blowjobs and heartache that i gave him which stuck. I don’t ask though. A couple of days later, I download all the Liz Phair songs I’ve avoided since we parted, because I might as well, right?

He was the prettiest thing I ever laid my hands on. I don’t know why I still feel guilty about that.









In this place so public that it’s private, you can call me Drucilla, Demetria or Cakegurl. They’re all mine, every one of these names, a lie I can defend. And this, best I can explain it, is the world’s worst love letter, which might sound shitty but is honestly so fucking sad and sweet that you might want to fuck off now or tongue a chalky antacid in anticipation.