Thanks for leaving me stranded in New York City you pompous, ass sucking, cock inhaling faggot. I remember the things that you did, oh yes, I remember. I remember the night I met you. I had come to fuck your father and ended up sucking your dick...somehow.
How'd that happen? Oh, right. We inhaled earth-worm sized lines of amphetamines and chased them down with the beers I pried from your cold, dead hands. The ones stole from the boy you fucked earlier that night, the cancer patient? The one who's drugs you so cleverly stole out of his bag while he was gone to the emergency room you God Damned Thirsty Imbecile. I see everything...Boy, do I see everything.
So instead of fucking the headliner, the most famous man in America, I end up fucking his twat of a son. The little bitch with eye-liner on. The one strumming his guitar in the smoke-filled rooms of the city surrounded by little girl-child fans swollen thick in the thighs with emotion. My bad.
I remember the night in Brooklyn, too. How we fucked all night, your kisses and caresses making me feel like some kind of human. Your warm face on my chest. How I would have liked to be wrapped up in your tight, turkey skin and kept warm. How afterwards I sat on your balcony, sucking on my fingers tasting like you, staring at the crooked, Edward Gorey scene. A disasterpiece, Mark. Our disasterpiece.
The next time I saw you I couldn't figure out why you got so pissed and threw me out. Was it because I mumbled Tim in my sleep? The sacred whispers of adoration for the man who made you? The one responsible for your life and the lives of all those who hang onto his every word? Have you never seen God you ungrateful little bastard?
Or maybe it wasn't the utterance of His name. Maybe, somehow, I had remembered you giving my baby sister, the juvenile, xanax and fucking her the very same night I sucked your dick after the show.
and I just want you to know that you can do anything you want whenever you want to do it but if you ever step foot near my side again I will knife you where you stand, Mark Taylor, and that is a promise to you and anyone you may have ever made as miserable as you've ever been.
At least your father plays a character, his trite idiocy appeals to the masses but it's superficial. It pays. You're going to die alone, you pathetic piece of strangely tall, lanky shit.
Mark, the thought of you fucking a child hurts me but, more than that, the thought of you fucking women at all disturbs me to no end. The thought of you possibly planting your swine seed into some innocent or not so innocent female who carries her bloody burden like a cross to bear for the sake of the reproduction of the species is almost enough to make me slit my own throat again.
In what ways could Ole' Jill "the sniveling harlot" Taylor have spared us from the birth of her apparent rape child. (You could never be of Tim's seed, not you.) Yes, I understand that at the time of your conception she was studying abroad in a country that is possibly third world but let us not forget about the creativity and innovation of a woman scorned and in peril.
What I wouldn't have given to have been there, if only as a passerby to whisper softly in her ear, "abort, abort." We could have tied floss around your fetal neck and driven away with you hanging from the bumper of a red corvette. All I would have had to do is just to have "stepped on it."
But here we are, you and I, separated by my shame and the things I've allowed you to do to me. The man you've turned me into is not the man I used to be. I don't even know what happiness looks like anymore, Mark.
I hate you for it and I'll have my time with you again to set things straight. Until then I'll be writing you everyday and letting you know how I feel about you and I. Separate and together. Forever linked by our nights spent making love and miserable because of it.
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