This is everything I wish I could say out loud to you:
I wish I liked you.
Your stubble gives me goosebumps every time. You want to rim me. You can get things from people. You’re in the arts. You’re my age.
But you’re pushy. You’ve laughed at some of my views. You could chalk it up to incredulity, and I know I am narrow-minded. Even though you’re probably right, P handles those times better.
I also don’t really like your foreskin that much. I thought I would like foreskins. You’re out of shape and you don’t like exercise. You’re starting to bald. You’re shorter than me. You like my lower lip. I suspect we may not be compatible on one key sexual aspect.
Thank you for everything. I shouldn’t have led you on and replied in kind. I’m sorry. I’m just glad I have the option to move to Melbourne and you’ll be in London by June 2013. Please don’t stay in touch. I don’t want to give you hope. I should never have done the thought experiment of where I saw myself in 5 years and beyond.