"Once I thought you were the strangest, most wonderful girl
I had ever known. I think I know better now, or at least I know the truth. I know why I can't
love you, and perhaps others agree with me. I'm sorry.
You're so vulnerable, but you aren't the slut-with-the-heart-of-gold people make you out to be. No, the truth is you only need to be saved from yourself. You could be redeemed if only you would wake up and smell the lipgloss. It's almost more difficult to watch the haughty girls like yourself suffer, because there's more irony in it, and your pain elicits a more sympathetic response--a crazed brew of desire and pity that hypnotizes me like cartoon eau de toilette fumes draws all the animated alley cats to the window of the local feline femme fatale. Of
course, you could never understand why this drives guys like me crazy; What, did you think it was all due to some artful style of grown-up feminine guile? The truth, of course, is much more charming, little one. You were so...attractive because you writhed, and still do, under the pressure of craving redemption and yet, don't feel like you deserve it. All of this made you so wonderfully tense, perpetually mobile and inviting.
I kept thinking, and saying, "If only I could reach out and touch you (at so many levels), you could be made to
understand!" But then, of course, the image would fade because you exist in this tension between salvation and redemption; without it, you can't exist. You have to be irredeemable to remain interesting, which lures me
closer and frustrates me all the more. Your charm lives in the realm of the almost. Almost a perfect tease. Almost a mighty slut. Almost a manipulative bitch. Almost a loyal friend. Almost redeemable.
Alas, almost real.
I'll call you some time."
-mistr terwilliger, vivid wordsmith