You know how, in movies, there is always a hooker with a heart of gold? Or a criminal, a man with a difficult past who, if given a chance, would reveal that underneath it all, he is living kindness, he is some saint sent to save us or at least the female romantic lead of whatever story we’re being told? There are so many stories like this. The whore, the thief, the violent, the insane – if we would simply patiently dig through the negative, there would be the positive, the warm heart, the kindness, the cookies baking, the wife the mother the husband the perfect friend. But it’s never actually like that. The whore is a whore and that’s all there is to it and the thief is going to steal just as much as he damn well pleases with no regard for how much work you’ve put into helping him realize his true butterfly beauty. Everyone is fucking determined to remain a caterpillar, and no amount of love or self righteous support is going to change that. Even if you managed to find someone who had all that shiny perfect positive under their nasty negative, the golden heart might be fucking boring and it could turn out that the only real thing going for that crazy violent drunk was being crazy violent and drunk, and really, you should have known all along that if once you got rid of the surface what’s underneath is never as much of a prize as you thought it would be and it is no fun to fuck a saint, they are invariably bad lays. 

The night I met you was the first time I believed that the story might be true and maybe we weren’t all being lied to all. the. fucking. time and maybe just maybe ohgodplease there might be someone who was this and that, not this or that, and all I wanted to do was wade through you for as long as you’d let me or as long as it was still what I wanted to do, and I wouldn’t dig through your exposed negative, I promise, I would just watch and wonder and want and have fun with you, because what else is there, really, when it’s over?
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