To you, you son of a bitch

You call me out of nowhere and ambush me with your self-pitying questions. You emotionally manipulate me into sympathizing with you, feeling sorry for you. You call my words lies, you say that I cheated on you. The whole time, I have to choke back what I truly want to say to you because, still, I could never say the things you said to me to your face. Your words were designed to impact, to sting, to accuse, to confront. I still couldn't do that. You say I'm disgusting, despicable. You hate me. You regret being with me. I think you were the worst thing that had ever happened to me, romantically and psychologically. But I still can't say I regret being with you. I still can't say I never cared about you.

I know I promised not to talk about you here. But you called me, and texted me, with such venom that I feel others ought to know what you're like. What you're really like. Because you take the things I've told you in the past, the things that caused me the most anguish, and you twist them to suit your own intentions. I never felt worse about myself than when I was around you. And you know what? Nothing I could ever say would change your mind about what happened. Nothing I could ever say would make you understand that I didn't fucking cheat on you. Really, what do I have to gain by defending myself now? Nothing. Lying to you and saying I had cheated on you would just satisfy some sick part of your mind that wants to hear that and believe you were right all along. I didn't cheat on you. If I even knew Andrew had feelings for me back then, I would've stopped talking to him. Then you would've gotten what you asked for so many times. But that didn't happen, and all I wanted was to be his friend. Being your girlfriend made me the loneliest person in the world, even in your company, and I'd take whatever friends I could get.

And what right do you have to talk about Zach? He and I have spoken since you left, and we're still on good terms. Everything's gotten better since you left. Funny how that works.

I want to tell the world what you're like. I want every girl out there to know what it's like to be with you, and fuck help them if they ever decide they don't want to be with you anymore because you subject them to this bullshit. I want them to know that there's no kindness inside you, just the fear of social rejection that motivates every carefully calculated move. I want Erin, the waitress at Frank, to know how you would invite her to things that hadn't planned and then finally plan them-- and not invite me, your girlfriend. I want Sabrina to know you told me, specifically, that you would never feel about me the way you felt about her. I want your friends to know how you'd maneuver me into a guilt complex so I'd do what you wanted. Do they realize, really realize, what you are? I want all my friends to know how you said they liked you more when you were Sabrina's boyfriend. You started our relationship by saying you were going to break up with me when you leave, and you started our relationship by saying you've cheated before. I expected it the whole time. I still expect you to say you did, whether it's true or false, because last night showed me how angry and bitter you are.

Oh. And I'm going to marry Andrew. Whether it's in one year, five years, or 20. Getting down on one knee wouldn't even be a surprise, just a formality. We've already talked about it, and he makes me happier than you ever could. So fuck as many 19-year-olds with rowers' bodies as you want. I'm sure they're easy.

Still, I can't bring myself to say to you what I really want to say to you. Maybe I'm granting my words a certain self-importance in thinking they'd hurt you.

I'm sorry I said you have a huge vagina, that you are such a woman. That I couldn't wait for it to be over. The thing is, I didn't just say that to Andrew. I said that to everyone. Some part of me knew I'd be relieved when you left, because the other part of me-- the part that cared about you-- didn't want to leave you. So you were leaving me. But really, you're acting like the scorned woman you're trying to make me into. I loved you. I really loved you, but I never felt you loved me. I was just your emotional stomping ground.

But now, the noose around my neck that was our relationship is gone. Fuck you, you cunty motherfucker, because trying to make you understand any of this is futile. You're not worth the time it would take to communicate to you how unhappy you made me, and how I still NEVER GODDAMN CHEATED ON YOU.

You're sorry for ruining my night? Ha. You couldn't if you tried.