So I am the cancer removed from your life, huh?

That's right. That's all I ever did - cause you pain. I never helped you feel any better by listening to your childhood abuse stories, your everyday work frustrations, your trips to Chicago and Cleveland with Amy and your forays into music and film experience.

I never listened to your mix tapes nor watched the movies and bought music from every artist you recommended to me.

I never made you a mouse pad that reminded you every day that you turn my mind into a bright, pulpy goo.

I never forgave you when you told me my cherub-round face needed lipo-suction.

I never listened to all your stories about women: from Ivy, all the way up to Amy. I didn't notice the red-head you ate lunch with all this summer when you were ignoring me. Dorothy and I imagined that you were rendez-vousing avec un autre, since you pretended not to see us on Fountain Square and sat outside to avoid us at Mullane's.

And you find it humorous that I just now noticed it seemed to stem from the night of our trip to Dayton, as if it wasn't apparent to me the very next day when you didn't come to my play.

I never accompanied you on long drives in Josie, screaming at the top of our lungs when Amy worked late.

I never read all of your poems and stories.

I didn't played Scrabble irreverently loud with you during the poetry reading until they kicked us out of Sitwell's.

I shunned risking my life, or at least expulsion, to help you infest our high school with copies of your underground paper, the Cyster Harold.

Forget encouraging you with pezdeth.com, or buying copies of your first Metal Viking Ducks album at the mall.

I didn't give you my company, just used you. I hung out with you because I didn't have a date or needed you to escort me somewhere in Josie, not because I enjoyed spending time with you. It wasn't usually when you were bored because Amy was working late.

You told me that you loved me as a sister and I reacted coldly, not because I was afraid that once you laid out words like that, eventually your feelings of vulnerability would cause you to be mean to me.

The fact that you are going to trash any further messages I send you confirms that you know you may be wrong in trying to throw me out of your life, like a CD you've finally gotten tired of listening to after almost ten years.

When you see me again, don't come near. I might start to multiply on you - leaching - like I've always done.