If you’re reading this, then it’s too late, and I’m already gone. I’ve taken the liberty to save you the trouble of explaining your needs and wants to me like I’m a child or better yet, your servant. I can no longer wait for you to make up your mind on how to best feed our souls with the necessary nutrients. I’ve picked up everything I need to make my journey. Anything else is just binary, secondary to my plan for distance. I’ve held my tongue long enough, lost for words because I didn’t know how to approach you the way you approach your silly cravings. I compiled a list of the things we needed to make this work, but somehow that wasn’t enough for you.
I don’t want you to feel upset over my decision not to confide in you. Don’t mope over the thought I’d forget the little things that made our feasts homely. I know how you like to talk about creating a tradition of ingredients made by us. The way you’d sprinkle little secrets into your performance like an inside joke.
I’m done doing all that – I want to try new things – you need to try something new. I can’t have whatever you have because our bodies don’t work the same way.
Somehow, I feel all of this is my fault. I played along with your “go-with-the-flow” attitude, hoping we’d find structure and discipline along the way. But I know that’s never going to happen unless I handle things myself.
By the way, I took your car – mine has a flat tire and I need you to get it fixed. That should keep you busy till I get back.
I’m making dinner so, please try to be home early. I don’t want to eat alone… again.

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