Disclaimer: I wrote this last Saturday, seething with anger and hurt and wanting nothing more than for God to smite you heavily with his great hand. Now, I’m much calmer but as I reread this letter to see if I should tame it prior to publication, I still feel the same sentiments.
I want nothing more than to rip your hair out, slap your face until you lose all your teeth, and do so many other things that might make hell seem like the happiest place on earth.
But I’m not going to do that.
I’d like to think I’ve outgrown such foolish hold of anger. And, after consultation with my best friend, I’ve been smartly advised to just swallow everything up and turn a blind eye. That would, admittedly, be the classy thing. But you know very well that I’m not one to bottle up my emotions so, this letter is a compromise–between confrontation and a growing desire to soccer-punch you. Forget classiness, forget restraint, I comfort myself with the knowledge that no matter what I do, you will always be 10 thousand feet lower than me.
Four years–that’s how long it took me to see past what is now obviously a fake coat of cheer and friendliness, I’m embarrassed to admit that it took me that long to realize your life-sucking abilities–how there you go suck, suck, suck until you’ve gotten your fill, toss the person out to the garbage, then move on to the bigger piece of meat. I understand how your limited brain capacity may cause you to have much difficulty comprehending so let me explain it to you in words I do hope you’d get. You’ve played with my Malibu Barbie and now that you’ve found someone with a Bratz doll, you toss my little Malibu away. But I’m over that, trust me. I just wrote it for purposes of documentation. I’ve done my part trying to be your good friend but just like school, you’re doing terribly at that too (not that you care). That’s no longer my fault.
I wish I’d caught early on how disgustingly horrible your mouth is–oily and deceptive with a crinkly smile and a loud laugh that works overtime. The mouth that bites people when they’re not around, saying the worst things only the worst friend could say. But let me be the first to tell you that you don’t really have friends. No, nor do you want one. All you have are pieces of gossip that you use as stepping stones to your personal success. Spreading rumors you wish were about you, stomping on them simply because you’re bored with your own lame life (one you pretend is exciting and enviable). Though… I must admit living a double life is thrilling–I mean, pretending to be a deliver of truth one day and then moonlighting as a scatterer of ungrounded, sensationalized information? Priceless. But your latest exploit is the last straw. If you want to talk about me, I,being the good friend that I am to you, am just a text message away from confirming or denying any of your stupid assumptions. You’d think that for you, truth would make a much more interesting angle.
I’m through with you, although I’m sure you’re through with me–my Malibu Barbie has lost her final traces of glamor a long time ago.
Your natural conceitedness will probably make you wonder if it’s you I’m writing this letter for but your thick shield of so-called cool indifference (plus the fact that you really don’t care) will block off any shade of guilt.
Ah yes, my ranting is childish but all things considered, you are definitely so much more childish than me. Now, I’ll follow Jason’s advice to ignore you, but allow me to be all second-grader one last time to say I’m crossing you off my “friend list.”