image from xocolat shroom @ flickrDear You,
Yes, you. You know who you are. You're the bane of my existence, is what you are, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself, for everything you've done and everything you ever will do. Not just to me but to every poor, unwitting woman who's unlucky enough to cross your path.
I used to hold my tongue when it came to your transgressions. I used to rationalize them, justify them, and ultimately, I would forgive them. I used to tell myself you were just troubled, that you just needed a good woman to love you and you'd be all better. I would fancy myself some kind of emotional band-aid that could be slapped over your many, many scars. I was going to fix you, yes, yes, you and all your countless flaws. I don't know how I was going to do it. I guess with love. What a novel idea.
But I don't have to hold my tongue anymore, do I? Now that I no longer live in fear of you flying off the handle when I say something that, god forbid, might be construed as criticism or a character assault, now that I no longer have to worry about you leaving me for some imagined slight against you, some malicious and manipulative hazing for which you believe I am famous for but which I know I am incapable of, since, you know, I actually did love you. I didn't just say it to get what I wanted. Perhaps I told you what you wanted to hear in every other regard - but not in that one. Never in that one. You ignorant shit.
Where was I? Oh. Holding my tongue. Or, rather, not holding it. Now I can say whatever strikes my malicious, manipulative fancy. I can tell you exactly what I think of you, lovey, in as many or as few words as I deem necessary. So buckle your seatbelt, kid - I'm about to take you for a ride.
You are selfish in the purest sense of the word. You are the kind of selfish that encompasses nasty little preschool children who will not share their crayons and who pull on the tails of cats just to take amusement in the way they scream. Your own self-loathing has roots so deep that you actually thrive on it. You require your manifested hatred for yourself to survive because hating yourself and all that surrounds is who you think you are; you only created it to cleverly disguise the fact that you deserve to hate who you are. Because you're not a good person. You don't even have a glimmer of potential to be a good person. You're just a rotted shell with beautiful blue eyes that are deceptive in their projected desperation for love. You aren't desperate for anything - desperation requires a soul or, at the very least, a heart. You don't feel anything, aside from pity for yourself.
You're a fake. You're a filthy liar and a dirty little fake. There isn't a single word you've ever uttered that has actually contained even an iota of truth because you don't genuinely feel the need to be truthful about anything, lest someone actually get to know the core of your personality. You pass yourself off as a lover, a martyr, a fighter, a victim - whatever suits your whimsical, demented little fancy. Whatever gets you what you want, be it attention or money or the assurance that you're not the asshole you assert yourself to be.
Which brings me to my next point - you're an asshole. Not just because you're selfish or because you're a liar or because of the countless other things that are horribly, horribly wrong with you. It's because you're a bad person. You aren't nice. You aren't sensitive. You aren't forgiving. You are wickedly intelligent, and at the same time, one of the most moronic people I know, a fact which can only be attributed to your incapability of seeing where anyone else might be coming from. So I'll say it again - you're a bad person. There is not a single redeeming quality about you. You would be doing the world a great service if you'd just do what you've been hollowly threatening to do for years and just throw yourself off a goddamn building.
Let me just clarify - I don't wish any ill upon you. The universe will take care of that for me. I don't wish you dead either. Contrarily, I hope you live a long, long life - it'll increase the chances that you suffer the copious amounts of misery of which you are so very deserving. I hope you find love and lose it; I hope you give your heart over to someone and she breaks it for no other reason but the sheer enjoyment of seeing you cry. I hope all the people you've depended on for validation eventually tire of your self-serving agenda and leave you all by your lonesome, where you can do no harm to others with the thoughtless things you say and the callous things you do. I hope you never find the happiness you have always been half-heartedly in search of; and I say half-heartedly because you are so terrified of actually feeling anything other than nothing at all that the very notion of finding it in another person terrifies the hell out of you.
You deserve nothing of any substance. You deserve the empty, pathetic life in which you revel. You have never proven yourself to be worthy of anything in this world that is good and whole and pure and sweet. You are not worthy of love.
But I gave it to you anyway. And for that, I hate myself just a little more than I hate you.
With the utmost sincerity,
Me
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