Out of all my colleagues, you are definitely the only one who wanted to smoke peanut shells for fun on a weekday. I could accept that. We are all somewhat artistic, jobless, and in need of haircuts. I suppose huffing glue and robo tripping are logical next steps.
However; I was disturbed when, after inbibing another psychotropic cocktail, you decided to inform me that I have a penis infatuation.
It is with deep regret that I write to inform you that your most recent epiphany is just one of many of your self-inflated delusions fueled by malnutrition, PBR and paint fumes.
It’s a shame that you won’t be joining us for lectures at the library anymore. I’ve enjoyed your company. You are a sensitive and introverted queer bumbling through life with the ego and social etiquette of a total butthead. What’s not to enjoy?
On the bright side, your brilliant conclusion has taught me more about how other men might interpret my brand of humor and what seven drinks can do to a six foot painting student in two hours.
And I realize that you have a penis infatuation.
Thank you for everything. It was nice knowing you.
