Dear Mr. Mindfuck, I am writing to tell you that I am done with you. I know it seems counter-intuitive to do so. I know that the best way to let you know I'm done is just to be done, but I have some shit I need to get off my chest and you desperately need to hear it. So consider this letter my last act of benevolence toward you.
I’ve finally come to realize that you are an asshole. Not a charming asshole or a cute asshole or a benevolent asshole, but just a straight up, garden variety, so fucking predictable and unoriginal I don’t know how I have sustained interest in you for so long asshole. And I am soooo over it.
I’m done reaching frantically for the little nuggets of decency you bestow on me like I’m a monkey in a lab that you need to keep complacent. Your brief glimmers of dopeness can only carry you so far. I’m finished with pretending to be charmed by your “idiosyncrasies” and finishing my stories about you with “he’s a jackass…but you gotta love him”. I don’t gotta love you, what I gotta do is stop pandering to your psychotic need to treat me like your personal fan club.
I am so off you. I am so over trying to read your mind, analyzing the inflection of each one of your endless streams of “yeah” and “no problem” and “okay” for clues as to what you’re really trying to tell me. I’m done trying to interpret your grunts and your silences. I am not Annie Sullivan and you are not Helen Keller – there is no need for us to find new ways to communicate with each other when actually speaking full sentences will do the trick.
So here’s what I say: Fuck you. Fuck you and your drifting off mid-conversation. Fuck your last minute flops and your non-reactions. Fuck you getting salty over something innocuous that I said and not bothering to mention it until months later. Fuck tippy-toeing around your feelings while you railroad over mine. Fuck your high maintenance, closet emo, emotional fuckwit ass.
Oh! And you know what else? Fuck your stories about girls you deaded for minor crimes. I am no longer afraid to put a foot wrong lest you cut me off and deprive me of the singular pleasure of being mind fucked by you. Your stories used to make me think that you were a discriminating man with extremely high standards, but now I see you for what you really are – a fuckhead with no patience.
Because I know you so well I know what you’re thinking right now. You’re thinking that no matter how bad you are, I’m worse for being the idiot who was so enamoured of you despite your shitty ways. And you are right about that. By rights I should have written you off long ago but I had something to prove. I wanted to be the one who could coax you out of your craptastic ways. The one who could successfully wait out your crazy. The one for whom you would stop being a mind-boggling jerk. Being able to see past your psychosis to the amazingness within made me feel like I was smarter than everyone else. I thought you would respect me for letting you be you and reward my patience with some basic decency.
I was wrong about that, as I was wrong about you in so many other ways. But I know that I am right in emancipating myself from your mental slavery. In breaking free of the shackles of fuckwittage, in declaring to you and the world that you are a prick, a jackfuck, and a generally despicable human being and I am soooo fucking done with you.
Much as I loved you, hate you now.
Anyone feel me on this?