I miss you, but have to say that sometimes you frighten me. You show me things about myself I’d rather not see. Sometimes it just plain hurts to spend any time with you. You’re like that one friend that we all have–the one we want to get away from, but just can’t. I keep coming back to you, but what have you ever done for me? Thanks to you, I’ve been misunderstood more times than I can count. Writing, do you hate me? I thought you were my friend. I guess, if I were honest, I would have to admit that I’ve used you, too–for cheap laughs, sarcastic barbs, oh-so-clever witticisms that drop with a resounding splat. I guess it’s not all your fault. Writing, I’m owning my choices. Can you forgive me? Can we make up? Writing, I miss you.