We fucked. You hurt my feelings. You quit. It’s different. I hate you. I miss you. I don’t want anything to do with you. I want to get rid of you. Forget about last week. The month before. On Victoria Day weekend. At breakfast in Parkdale. At lunch on Queen. At the dive bar on Dundas. At the basketball game. At the soccer game. At the movie theater. On the basketball court. In Bellwoods. It’s over. We tried. It failed. You gave up. I got angry. You were distracted. I got jealous. You didn’t want it. But you did. Then you didn’t. But I did. Then I didn’t. Now we’re ending this over text. And then you say that you genuinely want to be friends.
Fuck you. I don’t want to be friends with you. We’ll never be friends. You’re a scumbag and I’m a drama queen. We’re together or we’re not. There’s nothing between. What does that even mean? Like we didn’t fuck? Like you didn’t hurt my feelings? Because we quit before it even started. You bailed. I G2G. We pce, separately. You want me to be friendly to you now. Pretend like we’re chill. But there’s zero chill. It’s hot in here. Where’s Nelly? You want to be the friends, huh. The buddies that go for breakfast and talk about things. Like the concert last week, the vacation the week after or the metal band with the hot girl. Then we’ll talk about work. Then we’ll talk about an obscure childhood memory. Then we’ll LOL. Then we’ll talk about other people we’re dating. Then it will be awkward. Then I’ll remember why you suck and never ate me out.
So no, let’s not be friends. Don’t text me. Don’t talk to me. Don’t like my photos like a coward. Don’t read my Facebook posts and pout. Don’t read this if you’re reading it. And if you are, sure, continue reading. Don’t ask me to hang out two months later and act like none of this happened. Don’t see me on the street and say, “How’s it going?” Nothing is going. We stopped, remember? You stopped. I stopped. There was nothing after that. Stop listening. Stop fantasizing. Stop thinking of whatever comes next. There’s no next page. There’s no next time. There’s no calendar date to circle. It existed, but it didn’t. And for better or for worse, I’ll forget about it. And you will too. I’m a psycho. You’re a loser. The end.
But wait. You left your hat at my house. You left a record at my house. You left a bag of Skittles, mostly orange, on my table. I hate orange. I hate Skittles now. You ruined Skittles for me. You ruined orange. Just kidding, that’s dramatic. I love Skittles. Orange is okay. As for your hat and shitty record, I need to get rid of them. I don’t want them in my house because they belong to you and we’re not friends. We’re not anything. They’re taking up space in my bedroom. Next to my plant. Next to my books. Next to the things I genuinely like. I’ll put these shitty items in a brown paper bag and write “bag of suck” on it. Because that’s what you are. A bag of suck.
And when your friendly ass is ready to pick it up, I’ll drop it off with the concierge and tell them this bag of suck isn’t for a friend. It’s for someone I don’t want to know anymore. You’ll know him when you see him. And if he doesn’t pick it up by tonight, feel free to throw it out with the rest of the condo junk. Like the chairs with missing legs. The table with a stain. And the leather couch with bed bugs. Put it out in the rain. Without cover. Without protection. Without an owner. It’s junk now. Abandoned. Left for dead. But please. For the love of God. Don’t recycle. A bag of suck like this one doesn’t deserve a second chance.
I want to unfollow you. I want to delete you. I want to remove the tag. Delete the photos. Ban you from my feed. You don’t deserve to be fed. Starve, for all I care. I don’t want you to see what I’m doing. What I’m eating. Who I am with. What I’m thinking. It’s the day after we ended things and you’re not privy to my life on any platform. And even if you do continue to follow me or friend me, assume I’m happy. Assume I’m on a boat right now. Assume I’m living, loving, laughing, without you. With someone bigger. Someone better. Someone who eats me out and slaps my ass. Someone who doesn’t quit, then suggests a genuine friendship.
Laugh at my captions. Feel jealous. Like my photos. Read my shit. Do whatever you want. But it’s done now and it’s not healthy. I’m a person. Not a photograph. Not a caption. Not a tag. Not a geolocation. You don’t know me and you don’t get to be a part of my life. Forget about me. Pretend like nothing happened. The earring you found on your floor last night isn’t mine. I don’t want it. It’s yours now. Keep it. Throw it out. Wear it around the house. Find it in the trashcan. Remember me for a second. Ask the girl who slept over at your house last night if it’s hers. But it’s not. It’s mine. Fuck you.
If I see you at the bar. If I see you on Dundas. If I see you at Unlovable. Nevermind, I won’t go to Unlovable. If I see you at a concert. If I see you at a house party with a bunch of strangers. I won’t say hi. I won’t say what’s up. I won’t high-five you. I won’t stare at you from the corner of my eye, then approach you. I won’t ask you how work is. What music you’re listening to. What you did this weekend. Or where your hat is. We’re not friends. We’re not acquaintances. We’re not pals. We’re not exes. We’re two human beings that have nothing to do with each other. You won’t smile. I won’t grin. I will never see you around. Like ever.
In two weeks from now. In three weeks from now. In a hundred sunrises and sunsets. I’ll move on from this. I’ll feel bad for writing this. I’m pissed right now. I’m angry at you. For not trying. For not fighting. For being a little shit. For your short text messages. For your stupid haircut. For the hat you never picked up at my house. It won’t matter anymore. It won’t mean anything. Everything is fine now. I remember okay memories with you. And the annoying ones. And the reasons why it wasn’t worth trying for. I’ll forget. You’ll forget. And we’ll both forget about the time you genuinely wanted to stay friends. And I said no thanks. And you said that’s shitty. And I agreed and said, well, it is shitty.