I get letters periodically from a talented young writer that I used to, uh, know and coincidentally, helped get published.
(read: we used to fuck, I got him to write for Maui Time Weekly, and his enormous cock-fueled ego has been the bane of my existence ever since.)
So every once in a while, he sends me his writings. For the most part, they involve his strange-man-in-a-strange-land perusals that generally revolve around his haphazard seduction of a hot local girl. But also, they're just fucking good.
Anyway, his latest story involved the revelation that he's currently in L.A. under the loving care and financial guardianship of a lovely, successful Mexican woman 10 years his senior, who believes in his literary ability so much that she has decided to support him--and that all day long he ponders his writerly pursuits while masturbating to visions of the portly neighbor girl or some random telemarketer... all of which translates into yet another tale to send to me (and, I'm sure, countless other of his past femmes du jour) to torture me with. And what my dearest friend Krista doesn't understand because I don't yet understand is... why does it mean so much to me at all?
It goes beyond ex-lover jealousy (I believe it was me who decreed first that we weren't a match made in heaven) and it's not just fellow-writer envy (yes, he's got skills but wasn't it me ultimately who helped create the monster?)... it's something altogether more strange and disturbing.
I just hope that someday I can make peace with it... er, him.
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