When we first got together, we had more sex than I'd had in my entire lifetime. We couldn't keep our hands off each other and our friends were envious. It's been two years and 45 pounds since then. I cut my hair and started wearing glasses because I know how much you dig "indie girls." I know I'll never be one, but it was worth a shot. I don't read the right books or listen to the right music, but I've tried so fucking hard. I've tried everything really, but you'd still rather watch porn and jack off. You say it's you, but I don't blame you, I wouldn't want to fuck me either. I know what you like. I know you'd rather be with her. I've read the things you wrote about her. I wish I held whatever it is that she holds over you—as hard as I fucking try, I'll never be her. I'm not going anywhere; no one else will love me anyway. If I stop eating and buy you booze, will you love me more?