To my dearest,

I have a confession to make, my love, which may bring upon you great pause. It's a confession of what started out as a shameful indulgence; an admission of gratification to which I now admit, I see no true end in satisfying. It's this continuance of thought that bears down upon me with an unequaled fervor. I'm addicted to it. I find myself distracted and unable to process anything, without giving in to the urge. I woefully admit that as I chisel out these words, my mind is reeling in ways to satisfy the obsession. 

Yes, I admit to this obsession. And this is where I wish I could promise you normalcy. This is where I wish I could look you in the face and proclaim my freedom from it. This is where I wish I could be complacent and float lazily with the status quo. Why I must be different brings me no peace. Why I must constantly address this ludicrous obsession is beyond any conceived speculations that I could be normal. Obviously I am not. 

After admitting to my guilty pleasure, I would accept any hesitation as to my level of sanity. My state of mind. My grip on reality. I beg you to have continued faith in me. I pray for you to grant me time and patience, as a tackle and resolve this addiction.

So my confession is this. Every day; without fail or diluted magnitude, I dream up ways to make you fall in love with me again. Yes - I know, I know. You tell me you love me, but I never wake up with the idea that it's a guarantee. I wake up with the obsessing thought that I must show you why you should love me, all over again. I suppose one should be satisfied hearing those three little words and they are incredibly sweet, but they are just a small hit on the "bong" of life. 

No, I want MY expression of love for you, to be a wistful shmorgishborg of mind-blowing edibles; a three foot doobie reminiscent of a Cheech and Chong movie; a mosh pit full of red velvet couches encircling a chorus line of Turkish hookah pipes. 

I want every day of your life, filled with deliciously warm Chicken McNuggets, plated in silver saucers scattered around the house, like after dinner mints - available at your beckon call. And of course, ketchup!

I want to be the 'Ying' in your 'Yang'. The Scoobie in your Doobie Doo. The ping in your pong. And all for no real good reason other than to make you smile and laugh and hopefully, give you reason and justification as to why you should be in love with me. 

I wish I was normal, honey. I wish I could tell you I am over this obsession. I wish I could just be like the "other fellas". I wish I could plop my ass on the couch and bark out an order for you to grab me a brewsky, while chewing on beer nuts. I wish I could just give you a "thumbs up" sign when you tell me you love me; while nonchalantly flipping through the sports channels. Maybe someday, I'll be normal.

Until then, I have this flippant obsession to reaffirm. Why? Is it that I don't believe you do? I know it's a burden. I understand that it's probably tedious wondering what in the hell I will think of next. It might even be embarrassing having to explain all the silly antics I come up with to your friends, family and co-workers. You might even buy me a dog in a vain attempt to distract me. (shrug) While it would be cute, I would just figure ways to train our Corgi to deliver you 'love notes". I know - it's not normal.

So now you know. Now you know why I feel compelled to stay up on the phone with you until you fall asleep at night. Now you know why I text you throughout the day. Now you know my obsession, Theresa.

I feel better. At least now you know. 

Love,
Tom