I was rifling through my purse a few days ago when I came upon a note I wrote to you. The note looked innocent enough, folded into a seemly little triangle. It contained nothing important or exciting, this I was sure of, and yet I felt the need to dispose of it. I carefully unfolded it, smoothing out the wrinkles from my meticulously done triangle, then ripped it down the middle. Again and again I ripped it until it was nothing more than shreds of confetti. I smiled to myself as I looked at the small pile of my perfect cursive (penned just so for you) that had been shot to hell. You don't deserve notes from me anymore.
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1 comment:
I really like this.
It's wonderful.
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