I’m telling you for the last time.
When I first saw you, I just saw great friendship, I noticed you shined, your glow that made you so different in the world. And that’s why I wanted to meet you. And I did, it was so easy, so unbelievable, too good to be true.
I remember we spent a couple of days, maybe even more, chatting like two locked-up idiots with no real reason to be, all day long. No breaks. No awkward silences. Just talking, all day. You were always the friendly one, the believer, I was the skeptic. It was like watching The X-Files, you were the Dana Scully to my Fox Mulder, although this would be like the episodes where Mulder isn’t convinced and Scully does believe.
I was so afraid of opening up. Of being hurt. To tell you, straight up, what I wanted, when I realized I wanted more. You carried a secret around, a secret that I wish had never come from you. There had always been someone else. Funny thing is, that someone was closer to me than you were. You were (still are) in love with him.
You said you were getting over it. I had a change of heart and wanted to open up. I made a weekend trip to your city to see you in person because I loved you, not just infatuation, I believed back then that I had found my partner in crime, my co-conspirator. You were going all “meh” and unsure of it.
The week after that, Christmas, to be precise, you told me I reminded you of him. I was so mad at you, at him, at myself for going through this, but I wanted you. I wanted to show you I could make the effort, but my mind can’t control my heart, he couldn’t tell the heart that you simply did not care for me. That I blew everything out of proportion.
Thanks to you and myself, I spent the worst Christmas ever. Thank god I spent most of it drunk as fuck. I tried to reach you so many times, open up to you, and you, you closed up to me. You ignored me and avoided me like the plague. I hated you and loved you back then.
I told you I liked you, but did you ever give a fuck? Of course not, you’re still hung up on the past, and that’s where I disappear from your life. Last time we talked, about two or three months ago, you were a total fucking shithead cunt. I hate when people treat me like they don’t know me, when they see me as a psycho or a pervert, and you were doing exactly that. Shithead cunt. I hate you but I love you but I can’t stand you.
Ever since we met and you fucked me over with your little inability to move the fuck on, I realize I couldn’t move on either. I went crazy, became depressed; wouldn’t get out of the house, and if I did I would get panic attacks. I did not want anything to do with you or anyone associated with you. I even left my fucking band because of you.
It’s almost a year now, and I still can’t get over the fact that I thought I had someone perfect near me, someone who understood me, who wasn’t like me but was intelligent for me and for her own sake, someone who remembered the little and the big details, someone who would wake me up, and that I borrowed those reasons from my best friend, apparently. The you I knew got hit over by a truck for all I know. To me, you were the great lost album from the nineties, the Slayer album I bought once and broke for some mysterious reason, you were the most beautiful lyrics someone could write and the most beautiful guitar solo ever created, as fucking cliche as it sounds. You were the fucking last Twinkie on earth to me.
But I can’t get away from your memory. I wish you were dead. But I can’t get away from you. A part of me daydreams at times of the ridiculous idea that you will reappear, the way you were when I met you. But I know it’ll never happen again. Everyone I know who disappears like that always comes back. You broke the rules.
But you know what? I’m tired of looking for you, tired of thinking about you, don’t care if it is about how much I hate you or how much I love you, about how you can’t get over the fucking past when you’re extremely beautiful and smart and deserving of someone much better than me or my best friend, you fucking shithead. I’m tired of being sad, of being unable to write, of believing nothing good will ever happen to me again. I probably can’t erase you from my life, but I will outlive you and outlearn you.
I will live my life, a better life, because living well is the best revenge. But I don’t want to go all vendetta on you. I want to move on from you and leave you in your own pool of feces and imaginary semen, where someone you’ll never had has been fucking you over and over. I’m done, shithead, I don’t care, I don’t want to hate you, I don’t want to love you, I’ll find someone much better than you, and this is the last time I’ll ever write something about you again.
Fuck you, you shithead cunt.