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Dear Katherine,
I first met you in college. Do you remember? I had just left a meeting with the head of the English Department. A visiting professor had asked me to drop the class she was teaching because she would, “be forced to include certain texts” if I remained as the only male student. The department head told me there was nothing she could do about it. I was furious.
But I was also tired. I was tired of fighting. I’d been fighting academics over stupid things for years and this was a bundle of straw hurled upon my back. I was with a few friends when I met you. They were all athletes, headed to the dining hall to carb-load before a race that weekend. I went with them.
You were magnificent. Warm, accepting, comforting, nourishing to the point of excess. I reveled in you. I wanted more of you! I smiled with my friends. They did not know our secret. My tears were saliva, my tissues and shoulder to cry on were thick slices of warm garlic bread and cheese-drowned pasta.
When we walked out of the dining hall that day, my belly felt tight. Like a hug. You were there with me. My friends stuffed themselves as fuel they would burn off in a few days. I stuffed myself and found you.
When I stepped on the scale in my dormitory bathroom that weekend, you were still there: #363
You continued to be there; for me, with me, against me, always a part of me. As years flew by, others came. I forgot about you.
Until today.
Today I said goodbye to you, Katherine. I ran from you. I ran for what seemed like days. My body ached as you left me. You were a part of me! You were my comfort! You were there for me when nobody else understood my pain and frustration! When I said I wanted something better, you coaxed me to give up. You said we were perfect together. You said not to listen to others who judged what we had. You told me things would be okay.
You lied! You embarrassed me. You made me self-conscious. You made me regret myself.
So I ran. I’ve made my choice. Please don’t try to contact me.
Seth
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It’s an hourglass… first it’s big with pain, then small with comfort… then big with pain until the sand falls through the edge of the hourglass, and you’re done with playing the hourglass game. Goodbye hourglass.
Looking forward to #362. Thanks, Seth.
“Please don’t try to contact me.”
Burn.
Wow, Seth. These letters are great. Fantastic writing. I am looking forward to the next.