A Letter

Dear asshole,

Dude, what the fuck? Okay, first: notice I didn't write 'WTF?' as I fear your pea-sized brain would not understand the acronym that even a retarded beagle would get. But I digress, I fear I'll do that a lot in this letter... So, as I was saying: what the fuck?
I mean, if I don't answer the first six times you call me, you think it's because you're so unlucky that for some weird reason you're the only person who can't get through another person? I hope not. I mean, let me be frank: I heard my phone ring, I saw your number on my screen and that is why I did not answer. You might have thought: 'Oh, no, maybe she got into an accident!' 'Maybe she needs my help!' Uhm: no. Plus, notice I said I saw your number, not your name. Because I deleted your number from my phone a while ago. And those phone calls you've been getting at 3 in the morning? With the giggling and the hanging ups? Yeah, that was me and my friends. We all think you're pathetic.

Yes, I said it: pathetic. I've been dragging you along long enough, now I'm bored with my own game. You bought me dinners, and they were great, but fuck: I had to look at you and pretend I cared about what you were saying, I had to smile as you were telling me about your petty dreams and your fucked up life. so your parents died in a car crash: get over it. You think I'm gonna suck your cock because you're sad? No. I sucked it once, and that's because I was drunk and you so looked more attractive than usual. Plus I was in the mood to suck cock and you were there so I did it. And when I sucked you I didn't have to look at your face or listen to you spew your inanities.

I mean, shit: I even told you about the guys I fucked and the screaming orgasms I had on some random guys' faces and you just smiled and played it cool and was happy for me. What is wrong with you, man? How pathetic can you get? You know, when you thought I was going to London for a week? Well, I didn't go. I just shacked up with a young dude and we fucked for seven days. That's why I was limping when you saw me, not because I had twisted my ankle but because I was pretty much literally fucked raw. But, hey: credits to you. The mixed CDs you made me really came in handy, we fucked to those songs you picked out for me and as I spewed my cunny juice on that guy's face (I've forgotten his name), I also sang along to those songs. You suck, you're a loser, but your musical tastes are cool. Feel free to send me another mixed CD.

I was kind enough to talk to you, I was kind enough to sleep next to you, I was kind enough to let you see me naked and I let you take pics of me. Come on: do you honestly think a girl as hot as me would fuck a guy like you? At least you got the memories of my tits and the taste of my pussy to get you through those long winter nights. And spring- and summer- and fall nights you'll be spending alone.

This might seem a bit crude, but oh well. And please, please, please: don't think that because I spent time to write you that there might still be a chance. No: there isn't, there never was. Tomorrow, I'm changing my number and my email address and my facebook username. I'll once again taste the sweet taste of freedom, I'll once again live a life devoid of you.

My advice is fuck yourself. Or better yet: shoot yourself. Or pull a Carradine and off yourself while you jack yourself. Double whammy for a quadruple loser.

Oh, and also: lose weight. Do yourself a favor. And stop thinking girls like me want to know a guy like you. You're not funny, you're not rich, you're an ugly fuck and you're clinically depressed. At least you have good credit -God knows how- and so you got to invite me to nice restaurants. You're welcome for the company.

But I'll take a good-looking poor dude over someone like you. Because fucking is more important for me. And I know, your friends and you will talk about me, call me a whore and what have you. But please... I've actually fucked two of your so-called friends. I won't tell you who, I'll let you guess, it's more fun that way. But I'll give you a hint: you call them your brothers. Ha. If only you were as good-looking as your 'brothers.'

So, there you go, I've said all I had to say. Eat shit, fuck off, die, rot in hell. I don't care as long as you stop trying to call me. And if you turn this into one of your pathetic sob-stories no one wants to read, I swear to God I'll hurt you in a way you've never been hurt before. You might shed tears after reading this letter. But that's nothing. I've done so many other things with people you love and trust, you wouldn't believe. Oh, oops, did I say that out loud? Go ask them. They'll say: 'fuck her, you know she's crazy. Fuck her!'

Yeah. Fuck me. That's the one thing you never got to do.

Think of my body and think of my lips (all four of them) and think of me screaming somebody else's name in the dark of the night.

Yeah. You do that. You think and you weep while I fuck and I laugh.

Cuntily yours,

Me.