unsent letter



I hope it’s ok to send you this art which I bought for you, a few weeks ago.  I don’t know what else to do with it.  Seems appropriate to send, in a way, since weed is what you choose instead of me.

Weed symbolizes irresponsibility, to me.  I have a friend who smokes weed to declare they’re done working, an everyday 6pm ritual.  They can put their feet up, let their hair down.  I want something like that too, to let my body know I’m done working.

When I’ve spoken to you at night and you’re high, sometimes your voice gets so quiet, it’s hard to hear what you’re saying.  Like you’re less talking to me, more talking to yourself, or just talking.  It’s an honor, to receive your words.  But I wish to be perceived, known, and loved for who I am.  As I love you for who you are.

You suck at doing what you say you will.  The irresponsibility of weed seems wholey counterproductive.  How are you supposed to keep your life happy, making good choices, if you’re silly-incapacitated?


Last week, telling me you would deliver a joint to your friend, riding your scooter to where you abuser is still living, I was like–you gotta be kidding me!  Ok!

My peep of concern didn’t seem to register, but I’m not invited to comment.  I’m not invited to be your girlfriend, partner, lover, bodyguard, mom, boss, guardian angel, fairy godmother, handler, charmer, tamer, dom, sub, lil girl, deity, teacher, mentor, sponsor, divine conveyance, coach, counselor, advisor, jester, designated driver, spirit visitor, cheerleader, taskmaster, trainer, consultant, private dancer, escort, massage therapist, slut, house cleaner, neighbor, community member, personal shopper, financial advisor, or charioteer.

Who I am to you has been a source of contention.  Friend is a broad category–I was grateful to be your friend.  I’m angrier now.

conceptualizing the problem

There are a lot of ways I can conceptualize the problem.  Poor communication, irresponsibility, scattered-ness.  The quirks of your addict’s mind, not holding past present and future all at once.  I could say there’s a messy 12 year old driving your bus!

Or I can frame it like you’re a regular person, with regular values, and I made a mistake, to see you as remarkable.  I gave you credit for being way more than an overly busy player hustler capitalist, who really thinks money is going to keep you safe.

And when you told me you’d had 13 significant ex-es, I thought you had done real relationship with 13 people, deeply communicating, knowing, and fully being there for these luminous, lucky people who got to fully love you.  I saw the number as an impressive success.

I feel boggled now, to imagine you even communicating with that many people.  Let alone the whole of love.  I think you must define significant very differently.


This morning I believed the failure of our relationship was more a problem of choices.  You don’t choose to be my family member, prioritize me, give me a substantial chunk of your time.

There are questions unanswered, but a few facts I’m sure of.  You are in charge of your life.  You’re a good looking, youngish, healthy white guy with a little money.  No kids, no job, no family you’re taking care of.  Lots of meetings, but otherwise, you’re at choice with your time.

You could have chosen me–you didn’t.  I don’t mean sex, though I wanted that too.  I mean if you had recognized I’m a goddess who gives gold standard love.  How I wish you had wondered what would happen to your life, if you lived like I was important to you.  Then, I wish you had lived like I was important to you.


Later I thought it was more about feelings.  If you’d felt enough tenderness, concern, desire, curiosity, appreciation–then you would have been more motivated, to prioritize me.  If the love I gave filled you with sweetness, dawning inside you like a sun made of molten honey.  The feeling you came to earth in a human body to be loved in the particular ways I excel at.

I’m a super-feeler, and I’ve been stuck at a 10, for you.  Not sure you even get above a 5!

You’re a confusing guy.  I was going to say you’re a casual, chill person.  But if you’re so chill, why do you need all that weed?  I think you’re feeling a lot and don’t know what to do with it.  You don’t have the self-knowledge and language to understand the feelings inside you, so they are a huge destructive storm.  The weed helps you subdue frustration, overwhelm, confusion, anger, pain, and the unnameable.

Weed made me feel stupid–I didn’t like it.  It slowed down my language center and made talking difficult.  It threw off my conversational timing.  I would think of what to say ten seconds after it was appropriate.


I predict you will find a lady, creative like me, but hotter, younger, less married?  Your body will tell you she’s worth it, in a way I never was–you will want to fuck her and be family with her.  Your dick will lead the way.

You’ll believe her initial performance of low needs.  Then the truth will emerge, that she needs a lot, in relationship, like almost everyone does.  You’ll feel trapped in something too demanding.  You thought you knew what you were getting into, but oops, this lady feels a lot, needs a lot, and she gets bitter you aren’t following through with your half.

Sorry you’re eventually going to have to grow up.  I wish it could have been me you chose, not weed.  Or maybe you’ll find a magically hot low-needs lady, and your life will be one long high BBQ.  Good luck with that.


By Nest

Curious, disabled Earth Goddess, telling the truth.

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