I mean, God damn it. We had a good, a great first season. Remember all the good times we had, when we use to split a shake at the malt shop? We'd even use the same glass, it was beautiful.

Then, I said it was time we became closer, and I bought your first season DVD. I dressed up as a sailor and had to keep an eye on drunks all night to get that money (I'll only link to that journal if enough ask or I feel like finding it). I watched your commentaries, and you told me you had plans, you were going places, you just didn't want to tell me yet. Fine, I accept your privacy.

Then, second season came out, and all your flaws came out. Remember when half of your second episode was your first episode? You'd come home pissed drunk, raving about all the new mysteries you were creating and never going to solve. I learned to stay out of your way on those nights, sit in the corner, watching, hoping one day you'd come home sober, full of the love we use to have.

Then, this season, you've gotten worse. You've been hitting me with the orange in the sock. You walk in, scream meaningless shit at me, often flinging some around, and then you stomp out, not even kind enough to close the front door. Today, you walked in for about 45 minutes, you kept me watching, wondering if you were actually going somewhere. Then, out of no where, you pulled your pants down and shit on my rug.