I find Hutch's missives in this thread more enjoyable if you remember back in grade school when some boy liked a girl but instead of being nice to her, he'd pull her hair and call her stupid. It's actually kind of sweet to imagine Hutch sitting in his 972 sq foot home -- while his wife and kids are playing outside in the Appalachian art brut installation he calls a "yard" -- looking longingly at pictures of Bryce on a laptop, whispering "I wish I could quit you" into the wind and dreaming of being covered in a frothy mix of Harper's sweat, semen, and eyeblack.