I wrote a hundred lines; no more, no less. And I still remember precisely what you said after I had finally gathered the courage to bring it in front of you. But I'm thinking, it wasn't your fault or anything. Maybe quite a few things weren't your fault. Maybe, over the years, I've blamed you for some things that I shouldn't have held against you.
Because, if all of that was your fault, then I'd have to say that, in the end, in one way or another, everyone's the fuckin' same. But I really don't believe that. I don't want to. The only other conclusion is that there's something about ME. Something that pulls all these towards me over and over again. Maybe I'M inviting it unknowingly. Maybe it's something I can't ever get rid of, and hence, the repeats, the deja vu.
Well, if that's the case, I might as well start learning to live with it, right? I love doing what I love doing. I'm not going to change that. The one thing I can change is how much I share.
So, there you go. Here's to your newly-discovered partial innocence. I still don't like you, though.
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