I made a hard decision today. A decision about you.

Did you really love me? And if you did, do you still?

What is love anyway? I asked a bunch of people and got the same bullshit responses.

According to the answers of my classmates and co-workers, I don't love you, and that fact makes this a little easier for me to do. I never did love you and I never wanted to. I guess I'll finally admit that I have affection for you, even though I tried to avoid it. Believe me, I tried. If anyone else found out I'd be embarrassed beyond words.

I know you won't tell.

I trust you now.

You'll carry that to your grave.

Real friends don't tell.

I'm shamed to say I care about you. I care about what you think of me and what you think of others. I think about all the things we did and I still hope you haven't done "our things" with anyone else. You should feel remorse if that's the case. You were clean when I first got you. I hate things that are filthy.

The thing is, my pet, is that I care about myself more than I care about you. My selfishness is my floaties which hold be above the surface in a bloody sea.

I also wonder... if you still remember me. Despite your promise, I think you forgot. I'm a childhood phase, a new toy you wanted so badly, played with, and then got bored of me. Either you wanted to stop playing or you wanted a new toy.

Did you know that many people think you're stupid? Are you too much of an imbecile to notice?

I got comments all the time because of you. I shrugged them off and I didn't care much about their opinions of our high friendship. They did the same things, only they called it love and we called it boredom.

Once I noticed you were there I wanted to help you. I yearned to teach you, guide you, mold you. I wanted to make you smart, but not too smart. Clever pets always cause mischief. I wanted to expose you to words you didn't know, a guitar you never heard, a fruit you hadn't tasted, a moist heat that was absent of your touch.

I thought it was working, but now, you can't do any of those things, thanks to me.

I feel bad but I shouldn't.

If I don't go through with this, you won't learn your lesson.

People don't comprehend words, they understand actions.

Hate to break it to you hun, but I won't be there. I won't give my life for yours. What did you ever do for me? You act like you listen, you pretend to can relate to me but your life is nothing but easy. Others think for you. I think for you. You're too dumb to get it.

I have a feeling that if I let you go other's will always think for you.

You would let go of me, go to college, get married, have children, and I would only be a story to you and your sons, once their old enough to hear about me.

What happend to promises? What happend to friends?

I shouldn't think about it. After all, killers don't have a conscious.

It's your first year at a university. Your classes are overwhelming. You and your roommate get wasted and then he leaves with a girl. The girl doesn't want you. You're too fat and ugly for her. You're an idiot. So you plop down on the couch and channel surf for hours when someone begins to bang on your door.

"Telegram," says the voice.

Even you know that doesn't sound right, that nobody sends telegrams anymore. Still, out of curosity, you get up in your large plaid pajamas, push aside the bolt and twist the knob.

You think it's a guy from one of your classes.

You see a big dot and then a flash of black. You left your glasses on the nightstand.

My messenger steps inside, tells you I said hi, then splatters your cherry pie all over the wall.

Of course it wasn't me who delivered it hands on. You think I'm stupid? Why should I? You wouldn't go thousands of miles to see me. As far as the crimal investgators know, I'm not linked to this whatsoever. We lost contact years ago. How could I wait this long and not let it go? Anyone else would only wait a week and then act. They would get busted, and their father would kill himself and their mother would drink.

Maybe it's the Irish blood... I've been told I have a temper.

You shit yourself and piss yourself and you die. Your fat body collapses the floor. Your blood causes leakes in the ceiling for the students living below you. You smell rotten. Your roommate comes back and yells, calls an ambulance, and whatever. Everyone knows what happens next.

I end up attending your funeral, not dressed in a black blouse and skirt, but just dressed normally. I talk to your mom and tell her how much you learned.

She cries.

The clean polished casket you're placed in is made of wood. It's a closed casket because of what a mess you are.

Your daddy isn't here.

Sorry.

You told me how much of your life he missed.

The music coming from the church organ is depressing. I wouldn't even call it music. It's not the kind of music you wanted to be played at your funeral. See, I know you better than any of these people in the pews. You wanted to be cremated and you didn't want your death to be mourned. Instead, you wanted your life to be celebrated.

See how well I know you?

I know what's best for you.