Bitchface:

The first letter below was all bullshit.  At the time, you had neglected to tell me that you had “met someone.”  If I’m honest with myself, the only reason I wanted to stay in touch was because I still held out hope for us, however slim.  Now that you’re with someone else and I’m getting out of this shithole, I can finally put that idea to bed for good.  I said I’m happy for you and wish you all the best, but that’s not true at all.  I loved you dearly and treated you well, and you left me like a rat leaving a sinking ship.  So, for that, and for all the other bullshit you put me through, I say finally, truthfully, earnestly–I hate you.  Really.  Seriously.

I really hate you. Have for a while.

Don’t get me wrong–I loved your tits, as most men do.  Problem with being together with you was that, among other things, when you get right down to it, you’re a shitty, selfish, entitled, manipulative, narcissistic bullshit artist, and your mommy/daddy issues have long ago rendered you incapable of real love.

For that, I feel sorry, because I did love you.  You just couldn’t love me back.  

I am, however, eternally grateful for your gift of actually leaving me when you found a better deal, because the truth is I probably never would have left you.  I would have gone to my grave with you on my arm, because I’m just as damaged as you but even stupider and more insecure.  

Your appearance was the one single solitary characteristic that I found attractive about you.  Everything else about you is utterly abhorrent to me, but my self-esteem is such that I have to be with someone attractive to feel validated, so I keep you around even though you fuck like a stuffed sandbag and can’t suck a marble out of a pringles can.  But, even after the sex became rote, at least there was the classy tattoo next to your unkempt cooter I could splooge on for extra points when I tired of stabbing carelessly at her graying, saggy beef curtain.

Man, we did fuck well at the beginning.   But, what made us such a scorching couple in bed was the fact that we’re both fucked up & chasing some serious demons.  My demons run deep and long (obviously).  The only difference is mine are all out in the open now.  I’m finally free.

You have to stay behind and continue with the farcical charade that you’re actually that happy & well adjusted person you play to all of your (mostly male) minions.  

Despite all your bullshit posturing when you left me about being on your own, I know you’re profoundly lonely person with deeply low self-esteem just like me, and you’re scared of being alone for more that even a night.  I have no doubt you cheated on me (as I did you, quite often) while we together, so it’s no surprise that in a few short days or weeks after you dumped me, or maybe even before you left me, you got a shiny new boyfriend(s).    Simple for you: just bag the first white man at the bar who buys you a shot & doesn’t mind that you talk like Corky Thatcher when you’re hammered on wine.

Sure, you’ll be happy for a bit–he stares at your tits while you yammer about your bullshit job, enough fucking going on so you don’t have to talk much, at least not while you’re sober.  But, despite your best efforts to conceal it, you know the poor soul will soon discover just how dysfunctional a relationship can be.  

When the unlucky fellow inevitably discovers that you are, in fact, bat-shit insane to a point of incredulity, even despite the tits they either leave right then, or worse yet, like me, they say ‘fuck it, I’ll never bang anyone hotter,’ and end up staying around for years, knowing full well what a raving psychotic drunky-fuck loon you are, like those rats in that experiment were physically able to jump out of their trap but refused, causing their own death.

At some point after the sex becomes no longer novel, you stop shaving and start eating.  The frequency of your temper tantrums & name-calling increases.  No more blow jobs.  By now, you’re sucking only the man’s will to live.  

After some time, when you’ve finally extricated all of his vital organs & his soul escapes his now chubby body, it’s time to eject him from your orbit with extreme prejudice.  

That process is insufferably long, because you enjoy kicking the poor fucker when he’s down.  While you’re out drinking grain alcohol smoothies looking for cock to chew on, you give a call just to see how insufferable you can behave without him actually leaving or punching you in your face.  Incidentally, this is a game that can be lost.  The scar on your forehead (the one that’s uglier than polite people admit to your face) is a constant reminder of the dangers of pushing men to the limits of bullshit tolerance.

Then, just at the perfect time, you’ll give a call–you’re worried about the poor guy after all. “Hey, asshat, I know you left your wife for me so I could treat you like dog shit for 2 1/2 years, then l left you totally in shambles because you didn’t have any more money, but I want to talk after 5 months–I still love you, and oh by the way: I’ve met someone.  He’s so nice.  He’s a chemist and super nice and better than you by like a lot.   Oh, also, your friends all tried to have sex with me when we were dating.”  And then hang up.

Well, I’m officially done with your bullshit forever.

I know.  You’ll send this rant to all your friends, even the ones you stole from me, trying to make me look like a nut, but I don’t care.  This letter was for me, not for you.  Get it all out.  

Thing is:  deep down you know I’m right about all this shit despite the occasional artistic license.  News flash–happy & well adjusted people don’t drink 12 bottles of wine a week.  Normal people with working moral compasses don’t fuck married people.  They don’t lie, cheat or take advantage of those around them.  They don’t indulge the pathetic longings of creepy old fat guys happily willing to buy off their lonely existence with the hollow flattery, free sushi & endless ticks on the wine card at a club to which they’ll never belong.  

I know this only because your shittiness as a person is matched perhaps only by my own.  

Anyways, I do hope your new chemist is as nice as you say he is, and if he proves to smart or sane I’m sure you’ve got some dudes in the hopper.  Everyone, after all, does want to fuck you, it’s not that you’re a conceited cunt.

Well, you do have that going for you, I’ll admit.  I’m jealous.  You’re better looking than anyone I could get without paying.   You’ll be hot for at least for a few more years, until your mid-30s probably, when all those menthols, sunny days & pinot grigios start to make you look less and less like your well aged mother despite the conventional wisdom.  

Look at the bright side.  You’ll still be taller than most of the men at the nursing home, and by then your saggy tits may still be able to get you some jewelry from the “alzys” in the home.  It’s not all bad news.

So, anyways, what I’m really trying to say in typical longwinded fashion, for which I sincerely apologize, is: ‘go fuck yourself, you drunk crazy bitch. May your birth control fail causing you to spawn a mentally defective but viable late-term fetus, and that you’re jailed for putting same in the spin cycle with your stripper boots.  I hope your AIDS gets AIDS you one-legged chinese whore.  

Best,

Salty

PS–feel free to call me if you want to have some sex before I go, I’d be down as long as you’re sure chemist can treat whatever

Sent from my iPad

Letter the first, before i knew she repaced me:

Bitchface:

I’m left to assume based on the past few months of no contact that you’re not interested in remaining part of each other’s lives, which is your prerogative of course.  I hate that, because I’ll always care about you and wish you the best even though our relationship failed, but such is life & you have to do what’s right for you.

I know that there’s no such thing as closure in real life, so perhaps I’m wasting my time, but our completely severing ties seems so bizarre & unnecessary to me given our circumstances.  It’s been several months, I’m sure you’ve no doubt moved on to bigger & better things as you deserve.  But, surely we’ll both continue to care about each other–or maybe not, I dunno.  

Anyways, If you don’t want me to contact you again, just let me know, it’s fine, I understand…but at very least, I just want to know what led to you deciding to choose that route so I don’t wonder if our entire time together was not what I thought it was.

I’m leaving for Omaha for good in 13 days, done deal, but I have to come to town this week to drop off some things for The festival so I thought I’d reach out one last time & see if you have any inclination to speak or see me before I leave–doesn’t have to be anything ceremonial, I just want to catch up.  No big deal.  

Regardless, I hope you’re well & happy.  

Best

Salty