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I have a flat tire.

And my love is truly gone from me. Or maybe it was never there and I fell for a construct of my own making? Of her making? Our making?

She was so mean and so drunk. And that she could do this with her son at home, what does that say about what I mean to her. A good fuck perhaps. Here’s another empty promise John!

I feel like an ass. But I see what her “estranged husband” goes through and I realize that poor bastard will be me a year from today if I let her run roughshod over me with her need to drink. I cannot do that to myself. I will do anything for love (and I have Mr Meatloaf Aday, I have) but I won’t do that.

I understand addiction–and holding to an addiction in the face of those you love. If I thought leaving her would make a difference in how she saw things, that it would snap her out of this.

It won’t. This is for me. I love you Tammy, but you are lost to me–maybe you never existed. But you did and you do and holding on to you any longer is like holding hot metal that always gets hotter. It hurts to hold you. And I cannot ignore the searing pain and burning meat smell any longer. It hurts too much.

So I sit here at Brueggers, drowning my sorrows in consumerism. Tammy, if you read this, know that I love you. I always will. Look for me. The flat tire was an easy fix–My jack sucks, but AAA rocks!

My heart will take longer to heal.

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