I know this may be difficult for you to accept, dear reader, but I love you. Yes, you heard me right. I love you. No, I'm not gay. I'm just a straight man who isn't afraid to say that I love you, reader.
Don't squirm. Don't bring out your big caveman voice, all suspicious and accusing me of chugging dongs. Isn't it nice to know that I love you? Isn't my caring remark the refreshing breeze you needed to remove the dark farts clouding your day? Your natural reaction is to reject my verbal love-giving, but in time you'll learn to appreciate it and say you love me in return. Because you do love me. See? You didn't squirm as much that time. Instead, you were just extremely annoyed with me. You're making progress, and I love you for it.
I'm not here to creep you out. I'm here to creep you in. Does that make sense? No? Well, fuck you then. Well, that's okay then. I love you anyway.
Reader, we need to bond. I want to hang out with you. I want us to go for long walks and talk about our feelings. After all, you are my favorite reader, and you'd probably feel better about my use of the word "love" if we were better friends. Right? Okay then! It'll be fun. After our big day together I'll walk you home, wrap you in a warm blanket, give you some hot cocoa to sip on, and slide my fingers into your vagina.
There's nothing wrong with expressing feelings, reader. When I say I love you, don't be afraid to say it back. Or to service my hog. That's how healthy human beings show they care. You're healthy, aren't you reader? You don't have AIDS or anything, right? Because there's a lot of people I have sex with regularly who wouldn't appreciate getting AIDS.
If you do have AIDS, maybe you could go sleep with Michael Richards.
But enough of that. Let's get down to business. What I'd really like is to come to your house, drop a big steamy deuce on your rug, and beat the hell out of you until I'm aroused. While you're distracted from the pain, I'd rub my balls all over your cookware and paper plates. Then I'd grab photos of your grandparents and slide each one through the crack of my ass. Before I left, I'd hide a bucket of my urine somewhere in your house and refuse to tell you where.
I'm hoping our loving friendship can blossom over time. And even if it doesn't, dear reader, please remember that I still love you. Most people waste that word as if it were a container of parmesan cheese, but I don't. I mean it every time I say it. You're my parade of unicorns, reader. You're my mattress full of children laughing. You're my large-breasted Statue of Liberty, and I love you even more than the regular Statue of Liberty. Don't ever forget that.
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