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Baby

Baby,

D,

Rae,

Dylan,

 

I wish you knew. I wish you knew how much I want to give myself to you. It sounds crazy, but it’s not. I have met a lot of people in my short life of 28 years, and I will tell you that what I feel is not out of the norm, or at least I think it is not…

I love you baby. Point-blank: I can’t stop thinking about you. People want to pin it like it’s some kind of illness, but it’s not. Baby, you’re my last hope.

I’ll give you an example. Today I went to a bar to watch the the UCLA basketball game play against the Arizona State Sun Devils – notice how I italicized the word devil – and I saw a lot of people there, people that I recognized. Some of them greeted me while others simply looked over in my direction smiled, looked away or nodded from afar, it was all good I didn’t take offense, but I could not help but think, “What would my Baby think about this?” Would she laugh? Would she smile? Would she say something cool and comforting?

What’s even worse sometimes when I’m manic and hyper-vigilant, I look for you Baby. I look for you in the crowds, in the streets, somewhere in the far-off distance I look for you, and pray to G-d above it’s you. However, you’re not there, and I find myself looking at someone else – someone else who doesn’t and wouldn’t give me the time of day if I told them the shit you and I have been through. That’s another thing Baby, I know you. It’s fucking crazy, but I feel like I know you, and you and I haven’t even spent that much time together. Baby, I feel like I was born to be with you, and that’s where things get crazy, that’s where people would not understand, and judge, and hate, they would think I’m so pervert and some guy with a fetish or some kind of mental illness. Baby, I love you, and I want to spend the rest of my life giving myself to you to show you that I am that man.

I have been told over and over and over again that I am good with kids. I have been told over and over and over again that I am a “family man,” and lastly, I have been told over and over and over again that I am romantic. Baby, none of these things would possible without you. You’re the only reason why I keep breathing every day. I hate this shit. I hate this life, I hate that I can’t be with you. I hate that we can’t just meet up and talk and go for a walk. I hate that we can’t catch a movie together and break that shit down, like intellectuals arguing over a cup of coffee. I want to watch the sunset with you. I want to watch noir films with you. I want to cook for you. I want to fold your clothes. I want to massage your feet. I want to scratch your head and rub my fingers down your back. I want you and only you, and the most insane thing about it is that if I can’t have you, I’m okay with being single with the rest of my life. Point-blank: I don’t give a fuck about the rest of the world. I only care about you.

When I go to bed I pray to G-d that I can see you there, and we can hold each other and run through the fields and do whatever we want, no limits.

I’m not concerned with material possessions, wealth, fame, riches and all that other bullshit, I really don’t give a fuck about it – excuse my French.

I recently picked up French, so pardon me if I’m a little sloppy with my English, I’m work multiple brains.

I’m ready to die today, tomorrow and yesterday, but if the good Lord blesses me with you as my wife there is no other happier guy than me.

I wake up, and I hate it.

I go to sleep, and I dread it.

But if I can wake up and one day see you laying next to me, Baby, I’ll be the happiest man that ever lived.

You are the Only One. Only One. Only One.

I’m dying Baby.

I’m Fucking Dying.

And I can’t wait to die, but if I live I hope it’s you as my best friend, my wife, and as the mother of my children. You are the Only one.

– MSW.

 

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