dearest,

You have to know that I have a lot of insecurities springing from the fact that I’m so bad at running my own life: I go to work but I don’t deliver, I don’t know where to go (so I guess I won’t be going anywhere), I don’t know what I want (so I guess I won’t be getting anything). I’d be dragging you to the mire if I say ‘let’s be together’ and that’s bad news for both of us—you’re smart so I know you’d agree.

You’re well aware, too, that I have a hell lot of baggage (the same ones you used to carry) that’s been weighing me down since time-I-refuse-to-remember. Not healthy. So there, this space is surely not enough to contain all the disadvantages of being with someone who lives in a shit hole. FYI, some close friends think I got no sufficient EQ to keep a romantic relationship—coming from people who've been with me for long, I'm certain there's some truth in that.

When I said I like you, I meant it like I’m like willing to shake the goddamn universe—if only I’m capable—though it probably seemed like a joke so badly delivered. Well, I like you. You’re like a shot of morphine. And I’m not kidding.

(Take that! Hiyah, hiyah, wapak!)

Given these, I'd have to ask: Are you willing to go through all the trouble?

P.S. And now I can't help but wish all Saturdays're the same.