You want all the jabs you can get. In your mind they reinforce the idea that I’m evil and you’re perfectly innocent.
I’ll devastate you with the truth–as I see it now and will always see it–until you’re as done as I am.
The truth is that whether you choose to self-examine or not, you were the first, worst, and most consistent sociopath in this relationship.
Exhibits A-Y (one more and we’d have had an alphabet’s worth of evidence!):
You hid at least three mustache rides from me and falsely portrayed yourself as a rape victim (twice!) to keep this ever-fucked-up relationship going and control the way you were perceived.
Ask Aidan, that best friend of mine you shamelessly, desperately, disgustingly assaulted with your eyes and threw yourself at in my presence and behind my back–he gave you an 8.5 on a 10 point scale for sociopathy, and he thinks you’re pathetic, “desperate enough to make anything work,” manipulative, narcissistic, and always good for inspiring a hearty, derisive laugh. I’d say he’s got the nail hit on the head about 75% of the time with that description.
Ask Brian, who you dubbed more attractive than me in a public setting.
Finally, ask skinny-fat Greg from California; skinny-fat, bitch-titted, sociopathic Rob; Mountain-Man Dan, your opportunistic white knight in underwhelming armor; poor, little, puny DM, pre-diabetic Ashton, the abusive, scrawny Chris W; poor, little, puny and probably homosexual Sol; fat Bill, Tim the Borderline Autistic, approximately seven hipster app developers in Portland, and Felix, from whom I would have sought lessons on breaking up if you had it your way–only a few of the innumerable sexual vacations you toyed with embarking on or actually embarked on while we were together. Maybe you were just insecure and trying to make me jealous. That, of course, would vindicate you, right? Vindicate your getting sliced, sluiced, stuffed, schtooped, slammed, fucked, made-love-to, cunnilingualized* real good at every opportunity. Here’s a secret: as long as you want it, as long as your fickle, BV-afflicted thoroughfare of a pussy craves novelty, anything unfamiliar will serve you right, so don’t worry about finding a sexual match. Everyone who’s capable of copulation–even if his erectile prowess is lacking or sporadic; even if his hands are useless; even if he’s an atrocious kisser–is a potential match for you!
What’s more: if you’re ever desperate for friends, you know you’re always a hit with half-chubbed heterosexual males! Avert your eyes to the crotch–I know you like to and it never lies.
I hope that’s comforting to you at this difficult time. You’ll find your next “monogamistic” arrangement very soon, I’m sure. Perhaps you won’t get 7.5+ inches of ready and athletic phallusticity out of it, but you’ll synthesize happiness from your deferent, abjectly cuckoldable and immasculine husband–modelled after Daddy Len and me circa late 2010 and early 2011, before I grew a sufficient pair to confront you on any of your endless bullshit–and your lifetime of messy, dramatic affairs. You’ll find someone who has potential but no support network, habits or interests that encourage testicular descent, you’ll run him into the ground, and then you’ll find ways to make him feel like he’s wronged you.
My conscience, for one, is still sterling.
P.S. You can tell mom and dad they’ve succeeded in creating a spineless-monster-cunt-milquetoast in their own combined likeness, and that I totally would have slammed the shit out of the former’s cooch 30-40 years ago.
*(I was no competition for Rob on that, as I couldn’t bring myself to grow something comparable to that misshapen strip of shit on his upper lip. I’m so very sorry I didn’t get better acquainted with your clam, the cutting edge of vaginal epidemiology, while we were together.)