Usually it was after the second pack
that inspiration came into his soul
it came after the second cigarette
And when inspiration
he'd grab the paper and pen and
He was a romantic
My love, he wrote, this is the 272nd letter
I write you, and its subject will be
the idea of impossibility. I think
impossibility is highly subjective, my love.
I for one can climb Mount Everest in my shorts
if I want to, but one thing I'll never ever do is
get over you. I dream you
every night. Every. Damn. Night. And I wake
up and grab the dress you left behind and I
wrap its strap around my penis like one of those
rubber rings meant to make you last super long.
I've been doing it for… a long time, love. Believe
me. A long time. So long and so tight did I
wrap the strap that I managed to damage the
veins in my penis. It's bad… I can no longer
get it hard now. At 29…
The other day I came home with another girl.
I was trying to replace you. D' you think I succeeded?
It just won't get up. And even when it did, it didn't
stay up. The girl thought it's because I
smoke two packs a day, but that's bullshit.
Everybody knows smoking doesn't actually affect
that thing. That thing is only affected by
the love men can't get past. And in my case it's
you. You. You. YOU. And I'm not even mad.
If I can't do it with you, then what's the point
of doing it at all? There is no point!
My love, you still haven't replied to any of
That doesn't mean I'll stop writing and sending them.
I just want you to know that the red dress you
left behind… Well, it's faded now. I painted it
with unimaginable loads of white. And how could I
wash it when it still smells like you?
Well, I guess now there'll be no more of that…
But I still sleep with it on my pillow
and hold a part of it in my mouth.
I still love you, my love. And nothing will ever
P.S. The way I'll die will be with
your dress wrapped around my head
and the straps squeezing my neck. Now all the
means of self pleasure stand in that.
I love you.
He sealed the letter into an
and lit another cigarette