Let me tell you something you may not know about me.
I was born without a heart. Got a transplant at eleven days old because my mother thought it was weird. Really, not that it was life threatening or anything, but it gave her the willies. Mostly, I think she felt guilty she didn't know who my father was and was desperate to make me whole. No such luck.
It didn't take. And so I stand here, as heartless as I was brought into this world, telling you it's not you, it's me.
You see, I have an itchy ring finger. Not that serious, really. It's just it's always been naked. I guess I kept it that way for too long, because now, whenever a pretty girl responds to my attentions, the third finger of my left hand starts to itch like crazy. It's no mild irritation, mind you. It's mind-numbingly haunting. Comes from underneath my skin, I can feel it. Like a fucking billion red big-bummed ants are crawling inside that particular phalange. There's been occasions where I've woken up next to some gorgeous woman my inexistent heart couldn't feel a thing for to find I had scratched myself to the bone. Literally.
If you don't believe me you should know I'm actually physically incapable of telling a lie. It's a bit of a problem, actually. When I try to utter a statement I know to be false, I get this allergic reaction to the essense of the untruth that makes my throat close up. It's an extremely rapid swelling. Kind of uncomfortable.
Anyway, you can rest assured that I am being honest here. You will see no struggle for breath or sign of gagging when I tell you this. I don't fucking love you.
I do not and could not ever hold any kind of romantic feelings for you whatsoever. Not even a teansy bit of affection.
However, my finger's driving me nuts, so let's put a few miles between us, yeah?
I was born without a heart. Got a transplant at eleven days old because my mother thought it was weird. Really, not that it was life threatening or anything, but it gave her the willies. Mostly, I think she felt guilty she didn't know who my father was and was desperate to make me whole. No such luck.
It didn't take. And so I stand here, as heartless as I was brought into this world, telling you it's not you, it's me.
You see, I have an itchy ring finger. Not that serious, really. It's just it's always been naked. I guess I kept it that way for too long, because now, whenever a pretty girl responds to my attentions, the third finger of my left hand starts to itch like crazy. It's no mild irritation, mind you. It's mind-numbingly haunting. Comes from underneath my skin, I can feel it. Like a fucking billion red big-bummed ants are crawling inside that particular phalange. There's been occasions where I've woken up next to some gorgeous woman my inexistent heart couldn't feel a thing for to find I had scratched myself to the bone. Literally.
If you don't believe me you should know I'm actually physically incapable of telling a lie. It's a bit of a problem, actually. When I try to utter a statement I know to be false, I get this allergic reaction to the essense of the untruth that makes my throat close up. It's an extremely rapid swelling. Kind of uncomfortable.
Anyway, you can rest assured that I am being honest here. You will see no struggle for breath or sign of gagging when I tell you this. I don't fucking love you.
I do not and could not ever hold any kind of romantic feelings for you whatsoever. Not even a teansy bit of affection.
However, my finger's driving me nuts, so let's put a few miles between us, yeah?
