Dear collection of men (lads who think they are men),
Hello, and how are you?
I’m sure you are fine.
A bit lonely, perhaps, given the fact that you’ve now taken it upon yourself to contact me with long, colorful and crass recollections of our time together.
What is it that you want? I must ask.
You uttered no requests or proposals to me. You didn't ask for a date or whether or not that recent photo of me with a certain gentleman’s arm slung around my waist happened to bear any significance.
But I don’t need to be in a relationship to have sufficient cause or reason to reject you.
Perhaps a particular audience will condemn me for presuming you were not sincere in your letter to me.
Yet, the fact remains. My “failure” to satisfy you is what kept you from “getting serious” with me in the first place.
Was it not?
Newsflash: “Getting serious” in a relationship does not mean sucking or f*cking, much to your dismay.
You are so boringly transparent. You're the “pump and dump” type, no question about it.
Well, if you want to be the type of person who bases the importance and merit of a relationship on how convenient it is and how much you exclusively gain, that’s fine.
You can do it without me.
I could tell by the burning sense of urgency and desperation in your tone when you inquired, “Are you back?”
My guess is, you have been doing it without me. Now, you are probably doing it all by yourself.
This is, in part, what prompted you to pester me on this pleasant, pleasant night.
Above all, I suspect you are wondering whether -- if you had stuck it out with me -- you would have eventually been able to stick it in me too.
The answer is no.
Make that a resounding and flashing in neon lights kind of no.
I’ll admit I am currently without the gusto to call you by name, but I am not without the gall to call you and every one of your comparable f*ckboys out on a platform with a readership of over 70 million, a fair portion of which I predict are people who can sadly relate to me.
If you’ve read this far, please pull out your pencil (the one above your waistline).
Write this part down: I am not for your pleasure, nor for your cheap shots at love.
This is especially true when neither of those things suits you.
How dare you presume to be able to pick me back up like an old shoe left under your bed, lost amidst the army of dust bunnies and tattered, ratty socks?
May I ask an open question?
What is it about me finally being happy that draws all the ex-weasels like yourself out of the woodwork?
Did I say ex?
My error. Some undoubtedly are still weasels.
You know, you called me “the one who got away.” But the truth is, you discarded me.
In all your hormonal fervor and selfish impatience, you determined I was not worth your pursuit.
Now, here you are. You're crawling back with wringing hands, and your big feet are crammed in your fumbling mouth.
Here you are, prattling on about how little your latest nymphet romances have compared to me.
“Pretty girls are so dumb!” you cried.
I couldn’t decipher if you meant for me to feel complimented by the statement or not.
I had, after all, just struck you with a rather sardonic insult in the hopes you’d leave me be without demanding a more explicit rejection.
Turns out you need one. So here it is.
Yes, I am back from abroad. No, I do not want to see you.
I’m not sure what you saw in me, which isn’t to say I have little to offer.
It's to say your expectations were so wildly off-key, they almost made me question myself.
Yes, you almost made me get swallowed up in a gulf of pure guilt for the disappointment you brought upon yourself.
Have a nice time pulling the piss pump solo in the shower.