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Daria,

I have loved you so long to no purpose I can’t really remember what it’s like not to be pathetically entrenched in you. You were, at the outset, a cute photograph in the hand of a friend. You were, at first sight, haughty, challenging, a little overweight, and violently opinionated. You are, today, slimmer, less opinionated, wealthier, and tugging me at the end of your tether like a gold fish that’s yet to pinch off its fecal trail.

I am endlessly dithering, a problem with alcohol, brilliant and lazy and very, very angry. (And very, very quiet about it until it’s too late.)

In some slapstick universe we are so perfect for each other it hurts, and we’re married with six kids you’re already bored with and I’ve stopped writing to play with them and I love it and hate myself and we are listless and happy and a little diabetic. Darcy, why don’t we love each other the simple way and just give up this stupid race and walk home on the margins of the road where the crowd’s drinking and slandering the racers? That kind of activity I can understand, and maybe that’s why you said yes to me fumbling around in your knickers all those years ago.

I stopped drinking and you stopped loving me. On the plus side you tell me you’re proud of me for being such a swell author. Well I’ve stopped writing and started drinking again. So, baby, get ready for the grudge match, cause I’m ready for another shot of you.

Spifflicated,

Roy

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