Your attempts to “randomly” contact me are pathetic and reveal the truth of your sad and lonely existence. When I finally got the courage to get rid of your sorry, drunken ass, I truly meant that I did not ever want to see or hear from you again. It’s not that I bear you any ill will–oh no, I wish that you would realise that you are an alcoholic and getting thrown out of bowling alleys and movie theatres is not normal behaviour. It is simply that I wish much better for myself. I used to think that you were as good as it gets. I used to bend over backwards trying to get you to treat me with some modicum of respect. One day, God took mercy on me and forced me to realise that even if I am single for the rest of my life, the loneliest, coldest night on planet earth is still far warmer than the relationship I shared with you.
You wasted two years out of my life because I allowed you to, and by never speaking to you ever again, I can recoup some of my losses. So when I say do not call me, email me, or even send me a telegram, I truly meant it. I do not believe I could say it any clearer. I’m not sure how you mistook “get the hell out of my life” for “You should call me several times in the middle of the night and then send me a few dozen random text messages.”
Sending me a lame text message that says, “I think I see you where I’m at,” is about the dumbest thing I have ever heard, because if you did think you saw me wherever you are, why wouldn’t you just come up to me? Why would you send me a text message? The real truth is that you were probably wasted off your ass again. Congratulations, you have now graduated from drunk dialling to drunk text messaging. The alcohol is now so steeped into your brain and liver that if you stopped drinking today you would probably die of withdrawal symptoms, and that’s just sad.
You are complete waste of space and I am sorry that your life is so meaningless that the only way to make yourself feel better is at the bottom of a bottle. I’m sorry that your last girlfriend was a piece of trash that tried to pass another man’s baby off as yours. I’m sorry that you couldn’t recognise the difference between a crab-infested, pimple-backed, gap-toothed harlot like her and someone like me. I’m sorry that your two best friends are sewer rats that constantly hit you up for money. I’m sorry that I’m probably the best thing that will ever happen to you.
The truth is, if you really were doing well, you wouldn’t even think of me. You wouldn’t randomly call me at all hours of the night, talking about “the good old days.” You wouldn’t even know my name if you had moved in life, like you claimed you had the last time you drunk dialled me at 330 in the morning. You would be living it up in that cigarette shack, ash-tray dumpster canister that you call a house with some pussy-fart faced trollop and some dog-faced pig-assed kids. I’m sorry for myself that I thought you were “the one,” but luckily, I came to my senses before it was too late.
In case you didn’t get the memo, there were no good old days. I do not care if I never date again, never get married, never get in a relationship. I don’t care if you run into me and I’m an old fat nasty hag. I will know that deep in my heart that whatever my circumstance, it will still be a thousand times better than it was with you.
Just so you completely understand me, LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE, drop dead and die.
Thank you very much.