The Dangerous Existence of Madame Lee

(Note to everybody who isn't Hiro: I did not cut most of this because nothing is more fun than probably making an ass of myself in public. That's what Valentine's Day is for. Plus, this is my journal so I can totally do this to you if I want. Deal.)

This entry sucks. I used to be able to write beautiful letters, or at least letters that didn't sound vaguely sarcastic and patronizing when I tried to talk about this stuff. I don't know if it's because I was more articulate when I was younger, or if it's because I was still buying into all the extraneous shit and I thought that was something that had to go with it. This isn't beautiful at all, but it's still real, and that's enough for me, and it's probably enough for you too.

It's like this. We weren't meant to be together; if we'd been born a hundred years earlier, we'd each have lived out our separate lives on distant shores and died without ever even knowing the other existed, so it's blind dumb luck that we were both born in the late 20th century and both had access to the Internet. And as you know, I am entirely capable of living without you, since I managed for 25 years before I met you. And it's not like we're the first people in the history of everything to ever be interested in each other. I suppose if one looks at the whole thing objectively, it's been just one damn thing after another and in general a bloody mess, but I don't actually give a damn because I for one am happy with it. It's been such a comedy of errors, but if it were perfect, it would be boring.

I was going to write something terribly witty and articulate and brilliant, but the words just sort of turn to crap as soon as they come out of my head. And I know we've got solid reasons for not really doing anything about anything. And I know the stuff I sent you doesn't constitute any kind of lifelong sacred commitment (and no, you DON'T have to reciprocate), so I don't really expect you to see this as some sort of Public Announcement since I think my feelings are pretty clear anyway. (Lee: Subtle Like A Sledgehammer To The Occipital.) But you said last year, "...allow yourself to think this way sometimes, since no one's that strong, at least, I'm not," and I'm not either, so I sort of have to say this or I'm going to explode, you know how it goes, and you can take it in any sense you want and you probably won't be too far wrong.

( Beautiful and tender sentiments abound beneath the cut! )

I know that sounds like a farce, but it's the truth. And that's all I've got to say.

zyphryus asked me if the perfection was what made me cry (twice in one day, which is a red-letter occasion given that I can't even remember the last time I cried once in a day), and I think she hit the nail on the head.

There is perfection, and there is gratitude, and there is relief and joy and a certain amount of hilarity at the inept ridiculousness of the entire affair and how H and I between the two of us managed not to fuck up despite my extremely high-school handling of the situation.

And it is, sometimes, an all-right thing to be loved, if "loved" is even the word, which I had forgotten.