Why Gemïny

Dear You, 

I owe you an apology. The last time I "addressed" this topic, I forgot to embrace the moment. I have a horrible tendency to live "matter-of-factly," choosing to completely ignore my darkest moments, letting them exist as fleeting anecdotes that come off as mere matinee moments—phantasmic. However, even though details have been slightly altered to maintain privacy, these events happened. They had real-life implications. So, I am sorry for minimizing their impact. To acknowledge that mistake, I am writing you this invitation to remember that night during our Bourbon Dining experience. That night, when a bouquet of roses bloomed into a crippling anxiety, I can only describe it as lust.

Ok! Let's do this.

Dear, Jolina Goldberg,

I'm sure you remember the invasively intimate months we shared. You may still cherish with an admiration that even the zealots of Olympus would envy. I'm sure you remember every detail significantly better than I do; after all, in my day-to-day life, I only remember you as a Jane Doe: a name that continuously escapes me, But a face much like Snow. Snow that the others would see as a blissful wonderland of beauty, hope, and promise. Snow that always glistened under the blush of hot adoration, the volcanic kiss of a compliment kind enough to melt the coldest of hearts. Yes, I'm sure your reflective skin holds the fondest of memories for the kids of yore. But frankly,  I hate Snow. Passionately, I hate Snow; if there are no snow haters, I'm dead. Mrs. Snow cut me once, and it was a wrap. I'll never mess with her again. And in case it isn't abundantly clear, remind me of Snow. So I'm not surprised that I forgot that you were always there. Those few months I mentioned before weren't without you. NO! She just pushed you further in the background; your image: out-exposed by her sunshine. 

But when I think about it, you sat comfortably behind a tree, leaning candidly against the bus stops, lurking passively amongst the collegiate masses. Regardless, I'll give you credit where credit is due. You were never like how the media portrays you; you never assaulted my inbox with thousands of messages. I heard stories of your raids against some of the roster girlies (totally not a girly girl, and that's the actual criminal behavior here), but you were like her in that regard. You never extended your radio tyranny to my realm of influence, but you made it everyone else's problem. But that day, it was different. It was the first time Hollywood and I went on an out-of-town escapade, our "One Night in Tampa." Maybe that's what set you off, my naive belief that I could escape you. I remember how strange we thought it was to wake to a bouquet of white roses outside our suite door - ironic. I remember the tingle that ensued, that weird piercing chill running down my hide like thousands of spindling, creeping legs pricking down my back, arms, and legs... everywhere. It was a visceral, frigid, curdling feeling I could only attribute to you -- a muted frustration: an embargo placed on all rational emotion. I also remember her touch effortlessly emancipating me from my anxiety-ridden chains. That could be what triggered you: the way she made you obsolete. I may never know what it was that had you show up to our date night at Terra Gaucha. But I Know I will never understand how you got the Gall to emerge from your lonely seat in the corner of the dinner, vaguely veiled behind the entangling triangles and art-deco ambiance, and approach her, where you manifested the bravado to whisper any malice towards her in a room filled with Facóns. But still, despite your ill-informed "courage," you two in tandem forced my blood to curdle -- but this time, I was red hot and active. I felt my arms shake with the destressing rage of Valdivia. I remember all the sickening images of the violent, unjustifiable things I wanted to do to make an example of you. You'd pushed me to the edge. I applaud you for that. But you didn't deserve that, and I would never allow myself to become him. Still, I remember as I stood between you and her, still shaking. straining to maintain a calm one just slightly above a whisper to deliver a simple message: "This has to stop." That soft delivery led to my reprimand for "protecting you." I fell on the butcher's knife one night, hoping never to see you again. But I did just one time with tears welling down my face, too ashamed to look at the world, let alone little ol' me. And it is today, armed with that memory and all I know now, that I want to say: I'm sorry. Because it is on days like this that I am tenderly reminded that there are circumstances far worse than death, and it is without a doubt that whatever it took for you to accept our... tumultuous tether (?) tearing with conclusive finality was a trauma for you that I wouldn't wish on anyone. So I hope you receive this letter with open arms. So that I may say with the utmost sincerity,

I am sorry.

Sincerely,

Bunny