Epilogue (hopefully not) to insanity.

I have used the MB I have left as best as I could, save for that huge mistake which I'll regret the rest of my days. About you, I care. I care more than I can express with words. We might find better ways, don't you think?

There's not much more to tell, other than I will continue to write you. Asking for (and giving) permission to be a muse is not something that can be taken back, I'm afraid.

You impregnated me with a million more things to come, and for that I do thank you, even if you decide to come and give me a kick in the nuts before saying farewell. Not that I'm asking for that...

But that is only a symptom of what I feel about you. I have already rambled on and on. You should know where I stand, if I look like a pansy to everyone.

That is no affront to my dignity as a man. As I said before, it takes a man to don a pink shirt, and to call it "pink" instead of "salmon". I'm safe enough in my masculinity not to be piqued by those petty things.

I'm always almost done. The thing I miss the most is to just shut up and listen to you.

And I don't give up hope of that happening. I never will.

It might be that you worry about my integrity, my ability to withstand a flat-out rejection on all levels, down to unfollowing me and blocking me everywhere.

Fear not, my love. I hurt when I saw your reaction this afternoon, but I will survive the blow. The last thing I want to be is your chain. I'll live. I'm needed, remember? I'm a father, and (if they decide that), I hope to be a grandfather, and see them grow a lot closer than I'm allowed now.

And, at least in this blog, I'll call you "my love", that's what you are to me. Out of here, only when you want it.

I'll only call you "my girl" after you're 60. I hope we both see that, though I know not what will happen.

That's part of the adventure. We only have the one shot. Let's make it count whatever you decide, my dear love.