Dear Future Husband,
So. I’m Alex. And holy fuck are you in for a mess.
I’m homophobic, I’m gay, and I’m new in town. I’m not even as good at baking as I think I am and by the time we meet I’ll either have stopped going to the gym every day or I’ll have such a swollen head I won’t fit through doorways and the massive weight of my ego will break my own neck.
I’m going to be terrified of loving you. And terrified of the power you might have to make me love you. I’m not going to think I should be loved.
Oh yeah, and my family will probably hate you, even if they like you. And I have no idea how I’ll feel about them, but believe me, whatever it is there’s no way you’ll want to touch that powder keg with a ten-foot pole. Because whatever those feelings are, they’ll be the kind of raw, reeling hurricane of angst and love and anger that topples all but the most flexible things.
And case in point, I’ll careen from funny to nauseating attempts faux-eloquence at the drop of a hat and no, there will be no warning. Actually, I take that back. I probably get this stupid look on my face right before it happens. I have a lot of tells.
You still interested? You’re a better man than me, because I’m a wonderful combination of shallow as a dinner plate and having the standards of a dime-alley whore, which means you’ll never be cute enough, but also any decent-ish looking guy on the street will catch a glance from me.
I cry at least every three days, and frequently it’s intense enough that I watch from the outside and think “that’s a bit much”.
I like to maintain the illusion that I’m fiercely independent, but I find it hard to make any kind of major decision without consulting like 3 people.
I fucked two guys, still a little hung up on the second guy, and you will be compared against him. He was an asshole, so you’ll probably measure favorably that way, but if your dick and legs are better than his I’ll be a lucky man by anyone’s measure.
And I don’t really like myself right now. But I also like to look in the mirror and congratulate myself and I think just about everything I say is funny.
And I need therapy because I’ve thought about killing myself and I haven’t told anyone.
Don’t worry, it was just a second. Twice, two seconds, if the second one even counts, but, I have to earn my gay card somehow, right?
Why am I even writing to you? Are you even real? Why do I think about you constantly, more vivid than the real world, the touch of your hands, our fingers in my hair, the weight of your cheek on my chest or the warmth of your chest and shoulder under my head.
What’s wrong with me man?
Why do you feel so real.
When I made you up.
Am I going insane?
Would you be able to fix any of this?
Was any of this worth it?