The wind is ferocious tonight. The rain pounds down like millions of bullets. A familiar owl is outside my window. All too familiar. I noticed because you're not here and I'm lonely. I'm bored as well. Very. There's nothing to do. I am listless, meaningless, and it's all your fault. If you hadn't gotten me used to a higher state of satisfaction, of joy, I could occupy myself with something less than what I really want. Can't do that, though, can I? That would mean admitting I'm wrong. Which I'm not. And even if I was, I wouldn't admit it to you, now would I? That's just how I am, you should know that. We've only spent the last two years together after all. So now I'm sitting here. Alone. Dying of boredom and stagnant air. Rotting. It's all your fault. I could sleep, but I'd only dream of you. I could go down and get some food- my first in a couple of days. But that would only remind me of the time you were my dinner guest and I spilled caviar all over you. I could read a book. But that would be uncharacteristic of me. Plus it would remind me of your insane love of all text. That big grin you get when you're discovering something new. And right now, that's not something I want to do. Grin, that is. So I'm sitting here, thinking about you anyways.
It's all your fault.