You know, I think I've written the "you" blog out a pile of times, usually while we are talking while I'm wasted. It won't ever be published. Even this blog has been through a few revisions in the last hour or so, and I don't feel that any of them really contribute to the overall theme.

Sometimes, I can't find the right words. The poetry doth not flow forth.

Sometimes, I can't find the right feeling. The words are there, but convey things wrongly.

Hell, this post, which is about as close as I think you will ever get, dear reader, certainly falls under both those categories.

Aren't Oxford commas marvelous?

Anyway, there are a lot of problems with the you blog, because it would never be quite right, and some things are maybe worth doing right or not at all.

So, I've pretty much given up on that, and instead you get whatever this will turn out to be, and then will be left to draw your own conclusions.

In the end, I really just have too much self realization for their to be an honest blog with yourself as the topic. I have no illusions, and even though I doubt you do either, have you ever stopped to ask yourself what I might be getting out of this particular aspect of our friendship? I don't mean this as in some whiney rhetorical "what do I get" or "why are we friends" way - I certainly get something, and the question is quite genuine; What do you figure that something might be?

I think I have a pretty good idea what you are getting out of it, and I know exactly what I get out of it. And frankly, I just won't allow myself or am genuinely incapable of expressing that to you. This is very unusual, as I don't usually have much trouble expressing myself at all when I want to, but not really that unexpected. So if you take nothing else from this blog, feel a little special on that, I guess.

So that's about it, I guess. I wish I could have compared your eyes to the depths of a glacial lake, or said something about what a great person you are for always being so positive and fundamentally kind (you laughed pretty hard when my head hit that window), but in the end, that's not really what this is about.


Don't get me wrong, I would have loved to have spent the next hour or so of this evening hitting on you and enjoying the attentions of your pretty, charming self, but if this blog makes any sense to you, then perhaps you can see why I didn't.

And if it doesn't make sense, then I suppose I apologise though there is nothing I really can or intend to do about it - as I say, I have written this out a few times since we had that particular conversation, and this is really the only way to write this that feels genuine and not falsely flattering or even more falsely unflattering. Though I suspect the significance is pretty minor, you certainly deserve better than what probably looks like a very vague paragraph.