I don’t really mind being the heretic for you, honest. It’s okay with me. But I’d like you, my Circe girl, my own human Strait of Messina, to know something: no.
There is no day, no fractal path, no possible dimension created from any combination of events leading from the Big Bang to the present where you would be able to do this. I commend you for trying, but I want you to understand: I will make you an aborted missionary, a defeated missionary. Little self-proclaimed apostle, I don’t love you enough. I don’t want to be your pagan concubine, nodding when you tie your hair back with a glittery rubber band and clapping when you try to tell me I’m not cool enough to hang out with you. Yeah, well, no.
This said I would like us to refrain us from killing each other. Look, we may be wary, but I don’t see why we can’t co-exist, especially since neither of us is at fault here. I cannot inject chaos into you, you cannot build structure in me, but we are. You may think it’s just me, but it’s always been the both of us. We cannot change for each other.