Dear Psychonut

What the hell are you writing about? Because you see, i know you real good and i don't get any of it. None of this really makes sense, and well, it makes you look a little, um...weird, i guess i should say. These poems and words and drunken confessions are so meaningless it makes me want to crush you into a skinny sheet of blank recycled paper. See, cuz that's what you are...totally recycled. Nothing is ever real with you, and how can it ever be when you keep it locked as if a clam shell, a turtle on a half shell. Well, see, now y'r being silly, now y'r being cute. But yr not cute, and everyone knows it. I just wanted you to know that it embarrasses me. I go to work, i get bored, i read your thing, and i have vague recollections of you stumbling around the room, trying to get yrself steady so you can write a little. But honestly, I don't know what yr talking about, and like i said, i thought i knew you. There is no one, you speak to no one, except yr sad lonely self. Sometimes it sickens me to know you, really. And for the sake of us both, get this love out of yr head. Dearest, i hate you.