I wish I wouldn't have to write you about my chronic, acute depression.
I wish I wouldn't have to tell how many times I've thought of suicide
but didn't.
What, Phil ought I confess, if not my Personal Compulsive Disorder
of which you've contributed no small part, you bastard!
So what else is new!
Sorry, if this is making you feel shitty.
It ought to. Notwithstanding, I've found a boyfriend
who loves me true.
I suggest you do likewise,
and never write me ever again...
ever!
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