Obsession. Obsession. Obsession?
But why me? He asked.
Pointless question. I said. You're such a cutie. She'd say. And it's a fact. I'd add. Have anyone read the goddam book? I don't think anyone sees what I see, and for the sum of what I saw, witnessed, experienced since the day I've come across the text, oh, I'm crazy - for making a conscious decision to stand by a man, whose pained soul was so nakedly captured and displayed on the Internet. Yet everyone focuses on his... politics? And brands him one of the "Most Dangerous People In The World"? Are you guys collectively feeding right into his ego and marching him into the deepest level of "well, I'm fucked"?
Cody Rutledge Wilson, I won't forgive you for ruining what is so dear to me - Her. She loved you so much she would volunteer to be your "human shield" at a heartbeat and dodge a handful of bullets for you. Me, I liked you enough to accommodate whatever might be your fatal flaw. And what did you DO? What did you SAY? Whatever. My diagnosis was this: one fine specimen of a sexually repressed Caucasian male in a hot zone (he is not even that White - to be fair - Mr Wilson could well be of Mexican or Arabic origin if he has the right stylist. Blessed is he with a Southern American accent, something that we both shared an ear for) and I refuse to take that back.
If I hear her voice again saying "I love you Cody and #$%^(*^%$%$#!@..." I swear to god I'd find the nearest 3D printer to print a gun and shoot myself in the mouth.
What's the point of arguing whether this whole ordeal is a verifiable "love story"? It is fucking sad and it's an understatement. It started with this inside joke: shall we capture a terrorist and tie him to our bed?
Rest in peace? No rest, no peace. She'd always overestimated men and I've always worshipped them. She was right about one thing though. It's not about him. It has always been about us - me and her.
I will burn everything down to get to you. The way I see it, it's very simple - there is her love for love and there is my love for cheap thrills. I want the manuscript while she asked for the author.
S***** called her Curiosity, and Curiosity is dead. What's left is a not-up-to-date version of me, Rationality.
God bless America, I guess.
