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| I'm about to go completely middle-school on your ass. The thing is, I'm completely aware of it, so I don't want to hear you tell me how immature I am after the fact. 'Kay? 'Kay. So that being said . . .
You stole my man, bitch.
True, he turned out not to be good enough for me anyway (I mean, he chose you. What does that say?), but I'm not quite ready to get over the rejection yet. Especially since he never really rejected me anyway. He just kept me on the side while he pursued you. Hey, did he happen to mention to you that the night before you spent the night in his room, he spent the night in mine? No? Aw, too bad. You might want to have a chat with him about boundaries in the near future.
I used to like you. I thought you were sweet. I also thought you were attention starved and a wee bit self-absorbed (asking people to "like" your Facebook status if they thought you were pretty? Really?), but generally sweet. I also really appreciated the way you jumped to my defense when I vented time and time again (for weeks, actually. Since like August) about Bass-Playing Boy and my passionate, unrequited love for him. You told me that I was beautiful, that I was a great catch, and that he almost certainly returned my feelings and was just too intimidated to act on them. You were such a great listener through the whole thing. So supportive.
Until you actually met him, of course.
About six weeks after you first learned of my growing interest in him, he told me about a dream he'd had that featured a girl he'd never met before. A few days later, you met him through a campus organization. Turns out the girl he'd dreamt of was you. And from that point on, I didn't hear the end of how perfect you are. Yes, the word "perfect" was used. None of our mutual friends seemed to be able to find a single flaw with you. Because flawless people totally exist.
I didn't resent you immediately, however. I didn't have to. Though I was hurt that Bass-Playing Boy had become so infatuated with you, he was still coming on to me, and you didn't like him anyway. What was that word you used to describe him? Ah yes, "creepy." But that all changed about a week later. Why? You had no better options. We had dance practice together, and when he inevitably came up in conversation, your exact words were, "I might actually like that kid. He's the only not-socially awkward kid who likes me."
That's a great basis for a relationship.
You then proceeded to ask my motherfucking permission to go after the guy you've been listening to me talk about for months. I went with my first instinct, which was to lie. I shrugged, got through the last two minutes of practice, then ran out of the room and cried all the way home. I cried in my room. I cried in the kitchen. I cried on the way out of the building. I cried outside in the cold while I punched the wall behind our building until I broke the skin on my hands. Then I went back to my apartment, cleaned up the blood, and lay on my bed, where Bass-Playing Boy ended up with his head on my chest, trying to figure out why I was so upset.
Then you spent the night in his room. I went outside and punched the wall again. The wall is still covered in my blood. I still have scabs. BPB came in and held my hands and hugged me to him until I promised not to hurt myself anymore. I began to let myself think he was going to make the right choice and choose me after all.
Then he finally admitted that he'd hooked up with you, and had plans to continue. He at least had the sense to say it when I wasn't present; I had to hear it secondhand. Everything else happened very quickly. You made an enormous twat of yourself at our show last night, throwing yourself at him at every given opportunity (seriously, I can't believe you interrupted him in the middle of a song just to wave goodbye), and the two of you felt no guilt flirting, embracing or kissing in front of me. You made your relationship Facebook Official today.
I think I might hate you a little bit. And given the particular circumstances surrounding this situation, I think I'm allowed to. | | |
| In honor of you making your new relationship Facebook Official, I wrote you this letter to express just how very, very happy I am for you. I addressed you a bit in my last letter, but this one marks a departure from all of my others in one major regard: I actually spoke to you about this first.
This letter-writing thing was begun as a way for me to vent about things people have done to hurt me (and, on rare occasions, to help me). Here I can say all of the things I've never been brave enough to say to their faces. However, this week I grew a temporary pair of girl balls and told you why I'm cutting you out of my life.
Sort of.
See, I have more I want to say to you. The problem is that for the first time since I can recall, I'm not the one avoiding the confrontation. You are. You, who constantly tells me what a pansy lame-o I am for not having the courage to say things to people's faces. You are avoiding me. So now, let me explain EXACTLY why I think you're an inconsiderate, arrogant asshole who's going nowhere in life.
I admitted that I liked you. In fact, I basically confessed a passion for you that burns with the white hot intensity of a thousands suns. But I didn't want to, and I immediately regretted doing so. I regret it still. Because I can just about guarantee you that if I hadn't said anything, I wouldn't be so hurt now. So why did I tell you? You bullied me into it. You bully me into a lot of things. And after I told you, your only response was that you had known it all along. Not only did you not feel the same way, you had a thing for my roommate. So if you knew how I felt about you, and you knew that you didn't feel the same way about me, why did you pressure me into telling you? Seems a bit cruel, if you ask me. Strike one.
Do you remember that night you spent in my room? You know, the night where you came in, talked with me for a bit, then proceeded to lay down and pull me in close to you? After a while we progressed into touching - probably a lot more touching than was appropriate given that you knew I was crazy about you and given that you had already told me you weren't interested, even if you had admitted to being over your crush on my roommate. I know what you're going to say - you stopped at one point and asked me if you should be doing what you were doing. If I have the option of kicking you out of my room or having you stay with me, which one do you think I'm going to pick? Yeah. Not a fair situation to put me in if you're just going to play me later. So we talked, and we touched, and we fell asleep. You left around five a.m. When I got up for the day, I logged onto Facebook and the first thing I saw on my News Feed was that you were e-hitting on Her (yes, Her. Don't complain - I WAS going to address her as the Backstabbing Man-Stealing Bitchcunt). "Ouch" would be a gross understatement.
I went through the day thinking that maybe I was overreacting, that maybe you were just being nice because you're that kind of guy and you'd only known her for two days anyway (two motherfucking days). But that night I got a text from our mutual friend/my roomie saying that you had tracked her down just to say that you were going to ask Her out (TWO MOTHERFUCKING DAYS), and never mind your infamous no-girlfriends rule. That was about the point at which I started crying. Strike two.
You spent the next several days coming into my room, snuggling with me, and then breaking off and talking almost incessantly about Her. Never at any point did it appear to occur to you that I wouldn't want to hear about how pretty, funny, smart and nice your new conquest is (because I'm clearly none of those things. Thanks for that). At some point you did notice that I'd been giving you the kicked-puppy expression every time we crossed paths and asked why, but as is my nature I said nothing. I just didn't have it in me then to let you know how much you'd been tearing me apart.
I feel the need to interrupt myself at this point and make it known that the Backstabbing Man-Stealing Bitchcunt (oops, I wasn't going to do that. So sorry.) knew how I felt about you as well. Actually, she'd been listening to me go on about my crush on you for about six weeks before the two of you even met. She hugged me when I expressed my distress at your lack of interest, she said all of the things a good girl friend would say - "You're too good for him," "He doesn't know what he's missing," etc. Then she met you, told me she thought you were extremely creepy, and I rejoiced. Yes! She wasn't interested. I still had a chance. But about a week after that, she came up to me at dance practice and asked my permission to go after you. "I might actually like that kid," she said. "He's the only not-socially awkward guy who likes me." I shrugged. Then I ran out of dance practice, got on the bus and cried. That's why I was miserable when I got home. That's why I went outside to punch the wall until my knuckles bled. And that's why I refused to tell you what had happened to upset me.
Even after all of that, even after she spent the night in your room, even after you told me you'd be willing to break your rule for her, I was still getting crazy mixed messages from you. The never-ending hugs, the continued attempts to snuggle, and putting me inside your shirt while you were still wearing it (what the shit was that!) . . . I didn't know what to think. And a large part of me hoped, despite everything, that you really did like me after all.
Nope. Strike three.
I think the last straw might have been you trying to get me to help you split the cost of gum that you'd only discovered because it made her mouth taste good when you kissed her. You'd already struck out, but that there was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. And yet even after I told you directly that you'd fucked with my emotions one time too many, even after I told you you'd been inconsiderate and that you contributed to my extreme melodrama, you still didn't GET it. You're still confused. And that's why I had to write this letter. Even if you're too busy screwing around with Her to come talk to me like an adult, I can still say (or write, as it were) what needs to be said. You do, however, need to hear this at some point. And I will make sure that you do.
Never once did you or that Backstabbing Man-Stealing Bitchcunt give any consideration at all to my feelings. In fact, neither of you considered anyone but yourselves. You're with her because you don't think you can do any better. She's only with you because you're her best option right now, and when someone better looking or more her "type" comes along, she'll drop you. And because you're too dense to see - or care - what you've done to the incredible girl living right across the hall from you, you deserve to be dropped.
I know you're an idiot, but that was pretty blunt. Hopefully you UNDERSTAND now. | | |
| Yeah, I know there are a lot of girls in the world. I know that a lot of them are pretty, and a lot are funny, and a lot are smart and many are nice. Some are even fortunate enough to be all of these things. Congrats on having found a girl who meets these four requirements - I care about you, and I want you to be happy. But hey, do me a favor? Don't talk my ear off about how perfect this other girl is. It stings, and since you know I like you, you should also know that I don't want to hear about your other romantic pursuits. Right? It's common sense.
Another thing: I know this girl is flawless, so in the blinding aftereffects of her brilliance you may have failed to notice something. I'm pretty, funny, smart and nice too.
You never seem to address more than one of these characteristics at a time. And you have a nasty habit of using whichever characteristic you're currently aware of to your advantage, then dropping me when you're through and repeating the cycle all over again.
I'm a fairly modest person. I don't like to blow my own horn. But I'm a catch, and I really wish you'd realize that.
It's just nice to get a little recognition once in a while, you know? | | |
| Seeing as you've finally decided to stop forcing our "friendship" via various forms of internet communication, and seeing as this letter is my first in months, I think it's pretty safe to guess that you'll never read this. No one else I've written to has accidentally found me out yet, and I'd like to keep things that way. But even if you do, by happenstance, read this letter, I don't think I'll mind too terribly. It'll save me the trouble of having to dismiss you in person.
Goodbye.
That's really the most important thing I have to say - goodbye. I loved you once, and while the proverbial "they" do say that you never truly get over your first love, I hope to God that "they" are wrong and that you just fade away into nothingness, finally. After years of you alternating between ignoring me entirely and popping up out of the blue simply to tease me, I'm really ready for you to just go live your life and let me live mine.
You'll probably remember that upon our last meeting, I underwent one of my patent-pending mood swings. You pressed me to tell you what was wrong, and I refused to tell you. Well, now that so much time has passed that my response is no longer relevant, I can tell you that if you don't want to upset a girl, you probably should not call her a whore and imply that all of her relationships fail because she's a skankslutwhorebitch.
You treated me like shit when we were together. You treated me like shit when we were apart. You treated me like shit when we were almost-not-really back together again. Then we didn't see each other for ages and upon our reunion you were nice to me for about ten minutes. Then you started treating me like shit again.
Much as I want "them" to be wrong, I think I'll always feel a little something for you. I cared too deeply about you, and for too long, to forget. But I can't keep dealing with your immaturity, your sarcasm, and your general douchebaggery. (I can see your face now. Yes, I did just use "douchebaggery" as a word.)
I don't have much else to say to you now. Just leave me alone. Stop talking to my friends - you don't know them. Stop looking me up when you're home. And goddamnit, stop reading my blog. Please. | | |
| It would so happen that after a few week-long hiatus from blogging, you would be the one who inspires me enough to take it up again. In the past hour and a half, I have had to deal with two assholes; you, of course, being the one to put me over the edge.
All it took was two comments from each of us, posted on Facebook of all the ridiculous things, underneath a cryptic status update from my best friend and the apparent object of your affection. You responded to something I had meant to direct to her, I corrected your mistake, you took the opportunity to insult me, and as I was already peeved by the other aforementioned idiot, I took your head off. You tried to play your comment off as a joke (so that I'd look like the jerk. Yeah, I know how it works). This a mere matter of days after I unblocked you, since I figured that since you'd be stopping by a lot next year to flirt with my (unavailable) roommate and wanted to be the bigger person. You have now blocked me back, which severely irritates the more immature side of me. You know, that whole "I blocked you FIRST," mentality.
I know that we are going to see each other in the upcoming school year. I know that our meetings will be more frequent than either of us would like. And I know that if you behave upon our reunion the way you did in our five minutes of communication tonight, there is going to be a shitshow. I have taken the steps to be the bigger person thrice now. I'm done. Cross me again, you fucker, I dare you. I am furiously, stranger-fighting, wall-punching, knuckle-bleeding pissed to hell, and I'm too through with you.
Had I the great misfortune to be in your shoes, I'd think long and hard about just how stressful I'd like my next year of school to be. | | |
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