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Moving offers up little savory/unsavory tidbits. Tidbits, what a horrible word. It stays.
I found the box of you, no, fuck it, of the Ex (numero uno) tonight while looking to decimate my Pandora's box, literally, figuratively. I'll dismantle my stupid teenage bitterness and use it to house jewelry instead.

Found the video and was scared of it, scared of watching you beg me to come back. Haven't watched it since my young and flailing days in L.A. But instead, I found it sweet, endearing even. Despite the shit, the utter shit you put me through, you did love me like no one else and I gave you everything. I was shocked to hear you admit it, on tape, for posterity. You looked so fresh-faced, sad-faced, inspired by my "cemetery day". It makes me want to reach out to you, just to say, "hello, how are you doing?", but I'm not entirely sure I wouldn't be able to throw an "asshole" at the end of that sentence. You @ 24, fresh from losing, something you were never accustomed to, is not you @ 36. I know you have regressed, forgotten everything I tried to teach you, show you, about being a good person. I know it because I saw it in that coffee shop what...5? years ago and I saw the slow, snake-smile creep over your face, heard it in the phone call afterward suggesting we have sex, "for old times sake".

There will always be someone, someone who pushes the buttons, and you are mine. You exist now in a small, black bag and we should keep it that way. I simply felt the need to purge just a little bit more, in memoriam.

May 2010

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