From Emails I have written lately, strange sort of poem:
I wasn't being hateful. You just like to think I am, if I communicate much at all, it's usually frequently. I haven't figured out the whole thing yet about how wanting to bang someone keeps you from being their friend. I think I even replied, "Are you sure that's healthy?" Why are you so paranoid? I figured it out without looking at the answer, and I have to say that when I saw it I was unprepared. How would I be compensated? You really love to play the martyr. Someone, who is, shall we say, ineligible for pursuit - called the next day and apologized, said that someone from our group called and complained that she was charging her own drinks to their tickets. Caused some deep offense, said he was just like all the other Eppersons, just a drunk. Heighten the remorse, remorse for the entire situation. I went for a long drive, through some of the darkest stretches of road that I know, listening to John Prine, trying to flash some ass, most likely. It was quite a concoction. It contained both uppers and downers. That makes for weird dreams, a bit looney, though. It helps to understand things better going in. I have no idea what it could have been, certain character flaws that used to be worse but are now pretty well under control, or even apparently conquered, and I know that for the past few months I’ve sort of been absorbed in my own world, and my local friends have taken on a lot of importance for me. I’m going through some issues right now as well, but I think maybe I am more equipped to deal with them. Banadon deserves to be a real word, It's not especially coherent, and there's little to no dramatic tension, so next time you get ready to criticize me for only asking if something is okay with you, and instead of answering me you want to just complain that I even asked, I think it would be never anything that amounted to scandal to just go ahead.