I am sorry that I sent you a picture of my poop. Will you still be my friend?
I thought you would enjoy a selfie of my sloppy stool, but unbeknownst to me, you have matured. Please do not rescind our friendship, a bourbon-soaked friendship forged in lechery, deceit, and riffing about butt stuff.
You’ve kept my holy secrets.
You cured me of my clitoral ignorance.
You held my pubic hair back when I barfed from too much drink.
You taught me how to boof.
Was our companionship not rooted in more than degenerate tendencies and frank referendums on our emergency excretions? You don’t want my poop, but tell me you still need my love.
We ate Pretzel Crisps from the same trashcan.
We went halfsies on Plan B.
We bought matching negligees for our unrequited loves.
I made you trolls out of construction paper when you were cuckolded.
Our safe word is “Adamantium”.
Are we not brothers?
You are a man now. You didn’t want my human waste to pop up at work on your Facebook messenger. I understand that now. But you are growing up so fast. I was petrified that you were leaving me in the dust, so I provided the impetus. An impulsive exercise in self-loathing. Look at my shit. I am shit.
I stand naked before you, desperate for redemption. What do I need to do to get back in your good graces?
I’ll shave the hair on your back with a Lady Bic, thankless work, to re-enter your Inner Circle.
I’ll grow my toenails out until they become weaponized.
I’ll eat out a shark.
I’ll do whatever it takes, Friend. So pretty please, forgive me.