A Letter for a Fuckbag

Dear Sir Whom I Am No Longer Fucking,

Remember how I ended things so coolly--smiled icily at you when I came by to pick up my stuff from your condo and said that I bore you no ill will?

Well, I fucking lied and you are a dirty, rotten scumbag.  Here's what I was gritting my teeth to avoid saying to you, you worthless dumbass.

When we started dating, I was all for keeping things mellow.  Look, bitch, I am the fucking Queen of Gray Area relationships.  We don't have to define this yet, just yet.  Let's just enjoy this, whatever it is.  Let's kiss some more and I'll show you what an excellent bedfellow I can be.

But, no.  You had to know where it was going and what I wanted.  You said you were a relationship person and that was what you sought.  I said that was fine.  I didn't know what I wanted, but I'd know when I had it.

And then, you romanced me.  You said things that I didn't believe at first.  Then, you said I should believe them.  I told my mother--she said not to believe those things you said, so I did.  I finally gave in when I knew I shouldn't have, and oh... I loved it.  I didn't love you, per se, but I loved those things you said.  Until for no reason at all, you... just... stopped.

"I'm capricious," you said to me.  "I'm just not sure to what extent I want to be involved in a relationship with you."

Well, let me make this very easy for you:  you will not be involved with me AT ALL.  For all of your transparent behavior, you've hidden one of two things from me:  one, you are lying to me to avoid hurting me, or two, you are unsure about me.  I do not prize dishonesty or uncertainty in my friends, let alone my lovers.

So then when you ended up in a relationship so soon after I stopped having any discourse with you, well, fuck you.  To even things out, here are some things that I hid from you while we were dating:  I never stopped talking to my ex.  Sometimes I thought of him when we were having sex.  No, I've never had that problem with a guy before, so it was obviously your problem.  Your oddly-shaped ribcage actually turned me off.  I faked it.  You have terrible taste in music.  Yes, I am a blogger and I *will* write about you and everything you did wrong, even in the bedroom.  That is my fucking MO, bitch.  Even if you are intelligent and have a good job, the fact that you have a fucking marijuana nursery makes me want to smash your face into a brick wall.  Grow the fuck up, hippie.  Your dick was too small and your spunk tasted awful and you couldn't find a clit with a headlamp and two air traffic controllers.  You need to go back to school and learn when to use "your" and "you're" and you can stop being pretentious any fucking day now.  Honestly, sweetheart, you're lucky I didn't pour liquid nitrogen in your lap and shatter your balls with a baseball bat.

But, I'm above that, and I'm above you, so go settle down with your mediocre ball and chain and stay off the market, so that it's easier for the rest of us above average single jewels to find that special thing for which we all search.  You just did not meet expectations and I'm actually pretty irritated that I let you put your dick in me.  Like, way irritated, actually.

So here we are.  You can go on, blissfully unaware that given the chance, I would run you over with my car and think that everything is fine.  I did smile at you when things ended, after all.  And I was cool about it... to your face.  I said I understood and wasn't interested in being friends.  You don't have it in you to be a good friend and frankly, you weren't thrilling enough for me to keep around.

Cheers, motherfucker.

--Smashy