Dear N

Even though you’re hostile and closer off you’re a decent guy over all. You’re not particularly nice, or even funny. But you have a nice smile sometimes, although your excused are wear and it doesn’t make what you did right. I can’t enjoy what I don’t remember, your first sign that it wasn’t okay should have been when I was puking in your bathroom. “Take care of her” didn’t mean sexually and you knew that. You will never understand the shame I felt walking home and having to tell my sister what happened – at this point waking up naked in your bed was all I knew. The humiliation I suffered having to go back to your house and ask if you used protection is incomparable and I hope it is never replicated – on your part or mine. No amount of running can shrink me down to be as small as a part of me will always feel and yes I have tried. You probably still think that what you did wasn’t that bad (especially because I drove home with you after catering but really I just wanted to stay for the band) but it was. I don’t hate you though. I’m just sick enough to hope that you hate yourself and no amount of alcohol could make me puke that out. You gave a good hug, but made a bad decision. “Gin makes me horny.” Then go fuck yourself. We’re both lucky I’m not pregnant.

Sincerely, waking-me-up-doesn’t-mean-I-wasn’t-passed-out

P.S. I still don’t remember anything.

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