An I email I was forced to write

Ryan,
You are so incredibly important to me - you've helped shape my worldview and show me a love for literature and how to have a good time. You are the salt, sugar, and fat in my convenient, hyperpalatable American diet. For real! You are great!
But I am not, at least not yet. Though you are helping me achieve that, and that means the world to me, I still have a long way to go. And that being said, I never meant to offend you, or to toss crude, insensitive images in your direction. For everything you mean to me, Ryan, I can't imagine intentionally trying to hurt you, it's just not logically sound, it's not something I would knowingly do, not that it's not my fault, but something that lies in my lack of judgment -- when I thought out loud and considered the foul thoughts of foolish people (why would I do this) which I recited without censor, when I roleplayed various ideas percolating in my steam pot head, marinating my mind I guess I become immune to the consideration of what is contextually sound and what is not, which you may have noticed before. I don't want to create that image of myself, of someone who uses words that break down barriers around what one wants to deveop and protect.

I wish I could easily describe the sensations I felt when I realized that I hurt you. Plainly, my stomach began to intensely wring itself out and I noticed that the air was much hotter, and I felt the urge to sweat. I fumbled around in my car's trunk looking for my emergency cigarettes (there were 2, and I left them there originally to take to offer to my coworker, who invited me to a party at his house that evening) but smoked one. There was one left, shuffling around in the light cardboard of the package. I started the car and drove north, up to La Madera and Grenwiche. One of my eyes was irritated but I ignored it. NPR wasn't cutting it for me so I switched to the rock station and listened to it like background music in a movie, driving while my mind felt so rigid, so intensely focused on the cratered road and the turbulence around the car's frame as it scuttled and bumped until I decided to merge over left, where the road was much smoother. But in my head I felt aloof and lowly, something only time would change. I blew off that girl that I told you I would see again. I could not converse. I took La Madera eastbound, and turned right on Barnei boulevard. I wanted to walk and see things from close up, so I parked on a busy little shopping street, by a parking meter. The sign said time was up, so I didn't have to scurry around in my pockets or the car's center console for dimes. I got out and looked around. Something caught my eye and I walked toward it, "Out of the Closet" thrift store. I hadn't been to one before and I decided now would be a fine time. But I was disappointed to see the store cowering behind a heavy metal grating while I checked the hours. It closed today at 7. It was 8. I saw a male mannequin dressed like a pimped-out peacock and smiled. I kept walking a bit and a Mercedes pulled up to me, and a black man asked me which way to La Madera. I told him something that turned out to be wrong ten minutes later, but didn't let it get to me.

I wanted to ask someone which way to Valmont, back to familiarity and the freeway. I'm sure I could find it on my own but asked anyway. A strange, gregariously content Asian man smiled at me on the way to the liquor store as I bought myself a refreshing drink. I smiled back, thinking about how nice it is when strangers can approach each other with ease, just happy to be fellow men together, and remembered that "strangers are just friends you haven't met yet". He followed me into the liquor store and came out with me, and smiled again. Now was the time. "Do you know which way Valmont is?" He told me some directions that I didn't understand, even his exaggerated arm movements weren't enough to signal which way to go, but I pretended to follow along. He seemed well-kept, while an earring glowed and I noticed some strange scars connecting around his neck, as if he underwent an operation that would replace his skinmask face with someone else's. He seemed cool enough though. His directions included making a U-turn to go around some river that tears the street in half. I thought of a reservoir but no, it was some river that he was on his way to. He said something that included the phrase "horny" and asked me if "that was your car" twice. I thought about it for a second of a second and kindly refused the offer, and told him to have a nice night, and he was kind about it, too. I began to drive back to where I was heading and felt better. But I won't feel completely better until you read this email and call me some time.

With great honor,
Marcus Nagelberg