Dear A:

Remember the day I broke up with you? By the way, I’m really sorry that it happened moments after your cousin’s wedding. I felt bad about that. But I’d been struggling with the decision for a couple of months until that morning. I figured I’d wait a week or two, but I couldn’t look you in the eye by then.

Anyway, remember when you said it must be because you weren’t good enough for me? And I said that wasn’t the case at all? Well, that was a lie. You weren’t.

Let’s recap. A couple of years earlier, you had earned your bachelor’s degree. Your three-year bachelor’s degree, to be exact, in a field that typically requires a master’s or a formal certification before you can get any decent work in it. Although you did find some vaguely related work – for eight months, much of which you spent bitching to me about your editors requiring you to (GASP!) write well. Then you went back to being an accounting clerk/tax preparer/customer service phone monkey, just like you were before starting school.

You were 31 years old at the time. I was 22. I made twice your salary.

Fast forward four years. You’re still in our hometown, doing the same type of work. (Some of it, anyway. Night shifts must be a bitch.) I understand you got another writing job – for two weeks. I also found out from your weird vodcasts that you’re still living in your parents’ basement, and that you haven’t had a date since I dumped you. But I’m sure you’re as totally OK with that as you claim. You were always terrified of sex, anyway.

(About those vodcasts? Lose that fucking plush toy. I may call in a favour from one of my friends in town to kidnap it and set it on fire. And the way you talk about your cats is really creepy.)

As for me? Well . . . OK, this is going to sound like bragging, although that’s really not the point of this letter. But the contrast is important. I’ve found my footing in this bigger city. I have a new job with a much more reputable (and profitable) company than I worked for before. I’m earning $10K more here than I did there, and I have a lot more responsibility. The weird thing is that this company is closer to your field of study than mine. Funny how these things work out.

Besides that (I don’t know if you heard), I’m engaged! You may remember him as one of my Facebook friends who always outdid you in political arguments on my timeline. Turns out he also outdoes you in his pants. We’re getting married in October. You’re not invited.

You might get the impression from the above two paragraphs that I dumped you because you didn’t make enough money. . . . OK, that’s partially true. You still don’t make enough money to get your own place, which is kind of a big deal for 35-year-old men.

But you know what? That’s a bare minimum. I would have been more confident that you’d be able to take care of any family we had, if you proved you were able to take care of yourself. After our third anniversary, I became gripped with the fear that it would never happen. By the time our fourth rolled around, I started to doubt that I would say yes if you ever proposed to me – if you ever became ready to be anyone’s husband.

Oh, God, our fourth anniversary. Watching YouTube videos in a hotel room. It was pathetic.

That’s why I said yes to my fiancé without as much as a shiver. He can take care of himself. He’ll be able to take care of our family when we have one. He lives like the grown man he is. You don’t.

You know your complaints about our hometown never living up to its potential? Maybe that’s why you’re still there, despite your burning desire to leave. You have that in common with it.

Our break-up comes down to this: I was ready to grow up. You have not grown up. You are the exact same person you were when you were my age, possibly when you were in high school. You have not taken on more adult responsibilities. You went from trying to educate me about your political opinions to cutting me off mid-sentence when I tried to express a contrary one. You have never owned an actual suit. Your idea of fine dining is the Spaghetti Factory. Your favourite pastimes are first-person shooter games and WWE. Still.

You didn’t worry if I found any of this attractive, because we were already together. The truth is, I didn’t even find you that attractive when we started dating. Nice, sure. Funny, Even intelligent and funny, in some respects. Mostly, I was just sore because the guy I had an actual crush on then wasn’t giving me the time of day. I really wanted a boyfriend, and there you were. It was a massive, massive mistake, and I deeply regret that it took me over four years of pity and guilt to stop making it. Since then, I have met someone who stimulates my mind, body and soul. And what have you done? Nothing to prepare yourself for the next girl, clearly, if and when you find her.

So why am I bothering to write this letter, especially since a) we haven’t spoken since the break-up, b) I have absolutely no use for you in my life and c) this may already be your opinion of yourself?

I really don’t know. Maybe I should have said all this when the break-up actually happened. Maybe it would have been the punch to your balls you desperately need. Or maybe I just wish, for your sake, you’d stop making a complete fool of yourself on the Internet.

I do hope you learn how to act your age one day. In the meantime, I have work to do and a wedding to plan.

Yours truly,

J

P.S. Change your Facebook profile pic back. You are nothing like Deadpool.