Perfection disgusts me. It's like watching cheesy soap operas where everyone is unrealistically attractive and crying doesn't make one look like they just dipped their face in a bucket of pure snot. It can occasionally be entertaining, but more often than not it makes you want to smash puppies.

Or maybe that's just me. The only person I can get to watch soap operas I've found on tape beneath piles of garbage in the badlands is Finn, and he's unhealthily good, so it's not like I have any one to gauge my emotional reactions against.

Anyways, it would only make worlds of sense if I hated Bonnibel. And in a sense, I do. But in another sense, I kind of want to rip her clothes off, push her on the ground, pull her hair, and suck her-

Sorry, I know you don't want to hear about that part of things, given our history. I just can't help myself. Something about watching her fall apart when around me, something about watching the sheen of perfection she keeps about her melt away with every bubblegum flavored drop of sweat rolling between her lovely breasts, with every stifled gasp escaping her lips, that drives me crazy in the best way possible.

I think it's seeing that she's not as perfect as she lets on that gets me good. I mean, it's almost human how much she tries to disguise her insecurities and fallacies. It's almost human, how much she tries to prove to everyone that human is exactly what she is not. And that's what gets me. The only other human I know is Finn. The only other person I know that isn't either entirely good or entirely bad or doesn't entirely make sense all the time because he's just so very fucking human is Finn, and he's fourteen. I'm thousands of years old. As much as I love him, that just won't fly. I don't want to do the things to Finn that I want to do to Bonnie, that I have done to Bonnie, on numerous occasions.

I think we (I mean you and I) didn't work out because you tried so hard to be what I needed. You would start fights on purpose, but there was no passion behind them. You loved me so much that you couldn't stand to be imperfect for me. And imperfect is what I aim for.

I saw Bonnie in my old stomping grounds the other night. I don't think she was there on purpose. But it still sent weird shivers down my spine, watching her trip over her nightgown, dirty up to her elbows, mud on her knees. I couldn't help but confront her, bring up the old days, even if she didn't want to think about them.

I know that I'm the one who ended it, but most of the time it seems like it was her idea. Maybe it's because I've always blamed it on her.

I don't know. I'm sorry I'm throwing this all on you. You don't deserve to have to listen to me rambling about women that aren't you. You tried your best for me, and it wasn't enough, and I will never forgive myself for that.

You are a much better person than I.

Keeping on keeping on, and by glob, find yourself a girl who will treat you far better than I did.