CONGRATS CHAMP

Dear 2.10,
My pity for you trumps anger (which is not to suggest that dependencies and addictions are ever a blank check for malice and adolescence). Do you plan this out? Or is it just spontaneously dysfunctional genius? It just seems so methodical. It eats at me everyday - what is that, to wipe your conscience clean so you can do it some more as detatched as adding money to a pre-paid calling card? Your morbid unprincipled ego needs a leg up out of a suicidal abyss so you make contact with me to confirm what you already know - to have me humbly and honestly admit that I love and miss you every single day? You of course claim the same. And then, two short weeks and three conversations later, so that there's no mistake as to my mechanistic though valueless existence in your scheme, you administer what might as well be my own Louisville Slugger to its owners head. My admission was genuine and made under the mistaken guise which I aired to you, that I didn't figure I had anything to lose. But somehow, I don't know how you do it, but you are able to shatter again what's already shattered. A boot to the embedded shards to ensure there's no chance of working themselves free. A rebounding BoBo doll laid out once again. Well congratulations champ - put your gloves over your head and dance around a bit. Your father would be proud.