You know who You are,
I just re-read that conversation we had and, really, you’re an idiot. I couldn’t have asked for a smaller gesture, the simplest of asks, but you couldn’t do it. It had nothing to do with what I wanted, it was an excuse for you to get out. It was about to get real, and real is really disappointing. How do I know it was just an excuse? I know because you were drunk, you provoked me in your first line, and when you had the chance to end the conversation you just kept going. There were so many points where you could have kept the fight at bay, but you wanted it. Well, darling you got it.
Yes, it’s Valentines day and I’ve had a glass or two of wine, but I’ve wanted to say “fuck you” for a while now. I’m more disgustedly disappointed than angry. I’m still shocked that at your age you are so utterly incapable of having a real relationship. How sad for you that the farther away I was, the more comfortable you were. How sick are you that you had to chip away at the minutes we could have has together, and didn’t even realize what you were doing? What on earth happened to you that has resulted in this textbook rejection of intimacy with an actual person. You are going to end up alone, even if you wind up with a girlfriend or a wife you’re going to be alone.
As much as I dislike you for failing me in every way, I should thank you too. Thank you for pushing me away, for cutting me free. Genuinely, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. If we had seen each other, I’d be right there on the same page of the twisted story of our relationship with you. I’d still be in the fantasy, and it wouldn’t have had a fairytale ending. That, now, I know for certain.
I hope, in time, I’ll forget about you.
ps. Your life is has no resemblance to “Two and a Half Men”, “Californication”, or “How I Met Your Mother” except for the disgustingly inappropriate attempts to sleep with women who are much, much too young for you. It’s creepy and sad. Surely it’s time to move onto age-appropriate bars.