Dear Esteemed Swine and Purveyor of Poison:
I know what you are, you worthless bag of filth. I’m not nearly as stupid as you think I am. I know you believe you are omniscient, the all-knowing, all-seeing God-Man, A Prince among Princes, King of Time, Space, and Cock of the Walk at hick town country clubs. You lured me in…yep, I fell for your textbook line of Narcissistic spew. I fluttered my lids at your compliments and marvelled at all those wonderful things we seemed to share. (“Wow, we have so much in common!”) I was hypnotized by your claptrap and piffle, even while red flags danced and bells went off in the back of my brain. The angel on my right shoulder whispered that you were lying and were not what you appeared to be, but Lucifer, firmly lodged on my left shoulder, recognized you as his brother and convinced me you were “the real thing.” I wince when I think I handed over to you my innate dignity, my self-worth, and my self-respect and let you string me along like a dog-eared puppet. How dumb could I be? I served you my pride like a platter of scrambled eggs. I cringe at my weakness.
You spineless worm. You vulgar maggot. You’re a jerk, a cad, and a weasel. You are a stench, a revulsion, a big suck on a sour lemon.
I felt I hit rock bottom when you started the devaluation and depreciation of me, as if I was an old Buick ready to be put up on blocks. I remember the last day you were in my house…I was wary. See, even in my ignorant and confused state, I knew, I KNEW something was not quite right and it was pissing me off! I was guarded and slightly aloof. While not using outright insults, you fired a few little shots toward my bow that went straight to the heart. And I let you…I let you talk to me like that IN MY OWN HOME! IN MY HOME!! How could I let you do that? How could I do that to myself? I openly invited you to humiliate me. But I did not give you one reaction at the time. I waited until you finally left before I cried.
You puke-drooling beast. You canker on a sow’s ass.
I may have cried, but died? Nope. Uh Uh. I’m still here, you jargon spouting lout, because I decided to relinquish the role of being your victim in order to become a survivor. You two-bit monster, you ogre, you fungus. Even before I knew what kind of creature you were, my survival instincts kicked in and I blocked you on my phone. I quit looking at your social media. I avoided you like the plague-infested rat you are. Have you tried to contact me? I don’t know and I don’t want to know. Not knowing gives me strength, for some perverse reason. I’ll admit I had a relapse when I saw your vehicle in a place I didn’t expect it to be. (Even though this is my hometown, I have been avoiding every familiar and convenient place that I had been going to for decades just so I would not see you!) But I fought back. I slogged my way out. I don’t want to ever see you again. I don’t want to be within 100,000,000 miles of you. I don’t want to run into you or see you in a social setting. I don’t want to pass you on the road. I don’t want to breath the same air molecules as you do. Your cooties are too toxic.
You are a waste of flesh, ridiculous and obnoxious, the moral equivalent of a leech. You are a living emptiness, a meaningless void, a disease.
Yet, I do need to thank you for a few things. Besides discovering what Narcissism is, I made an effort to remain busy and, therefore, keep my mind occupied, I embarked on an intense and advanced Pilates program and a walking regime of 6 miles a day. As a result, I lost 10 pounds, my abs are tight as a drum, and my ass is as rock hard as 18 year old’s. You will never get your paws on it, though. I’m saving that for a real man that deserves it. I realize I’m just an appliance, though. But I am State of the Art compared to you. I could be the Grand Prize on Let’s Make a Deal. You are ready for the landfill or a garbage scow.
You are deficient in all that lends character. You are dank and filthy. You spread misery and sorrow wherever you go, you grimy, squalid troll.
Speaking of looks, let’s turn a critical, unbiased glance at your appearance. Adonis you may consider yourself to be, but I don’t think Tom Selleck has anything to worry about as far as competition from you is concerned. In fact, when I first met you, I recall thinking, “Why do all guys in this profession look alike?” I like to remind myself of how I was NOT bowled over the first day we met. Seriously, dude, you do know you are bald, don’t you? I mean, I know it is the badass thing now to shave your head like The Rock, but that doesn’t alter the fact that you have lost your hair and are officially categorized as BALD. Suck on that, Baldy. Also, your jawline hints of an incipient slackness that awaits you in the near future. And that body that you preen so fondly is kind of beefy…you know, the type that will chub out in just a few years. Your legs are stubby.
I will never get over the embarrassment of belonging to the same species as you. You have all the appeal of a leper. You are vile, worthless, and a ratchet-jawed piddler of no merit.
I’m just pissed off that I didn’t call you out on your grandiose delusions and falsehoods. I could have pretty easily, you know. See, dumbass, those ensnared in your insidious trap are capable of using Facebook, also. Those daughters of yours? In spite of your fables as Father of the Year, clearly they publicly hold you in contempt for what you did to their mother. Politics and social sciences? You know nothing, but pretend you are Edward R. Murrow. One difference, though: I’m sure Mr. Murrow was literate. You are a prime example of what Facebook’s function is: to be what you want people to THINK you are. The Narcissist’s Paradise. Oh, yeah, and ex-wife number two? You know, the one you said was a model? Well, if she is a model, then I am Gisele Bundchen’s better looking twin. And that girlfriend of yours…you know, the one you never mentioned? One would never mistake her for a model, but I refuse to be unkind, because I know the hell she is going through right now, even though your declarations of love for her on Facebook were consistently stomach turning. You and I both know what you really are, but I’m sure her money, old family name, and multitude of business contacts keeps the fuel a’pumpin’ from her. Of course, the times I have run into her in person, she has that harried, anxious, and agitated look on her face. The look that screams, “I LIVE WITH A CONTROL FREAK!” Well, I hope she’s happy with you being her knuckle-dragging Neanderthal. Better her than me. I hope you didn’t “borrow” too much of her inheritance. There is a word for men who sponge off women, but I am too much of a lady to repeat it.
You smarmy woofter glob. You asinine gob-kissing, one-handed, slack-jawed, slavering meatslapper.
Speaking of that, you couldn’t kiss your way out of a paper bag. I was at least expecting you to be good in that particular field of endeavor, but you are a mediocre kisser, at best. I kept thinking, “C’mon, give me something to work with here!” as I really gave it my all. (I’ve never had any complaints in that dept.) Your fumbling, slimy slobbering made me slightly queasy. I’m glad I told you to back off before I let you cop a good feel. Thank goodness our “relationship” never got to the point of doing the Wild Thang in the kip. Your kiss told me all I needed to know about how you might have performed. And I am not that skilled of an actress to have pretended to be in ecstasy. Hell, Meryl Streep couldn’t have pulled it off.
May you choke on the bilious, convulsing nausea of your own trite, foolish beliefs. You are weary, stale, flat, nasty, and profane. Monkeys look down on you.
This letter crystallizes everything I want to say to you. But will you ever know my real feelings? NEVER! Thank the Lord my own natural sangfroid prevented me from falling all over you, averted me from blowing up your phone, and stopped me from confessing any kind of endearment that would have me turning purple with shame now that you are out of my life. This letter is for me. Whenever you slither across my mind like a snake, I will read this letter and remind myself what a pisshead you are. If anything happens to trigger a memory of your useless self, I will pull out this letter and recall your malevolent personality and malignant charm. If I ever see your stupid ass EVER again, I will once again peruse this letter and feel relief that I escaped such a foot-licking mass of walking vomit. You will never know what I went through or how I feel about you now. I will ignore you like as I would a ditch carp and will flick you away like a loathsome gnat buzzing around my face. Whatever it takes to rid my soul of you, I will do it. My anger toward you is nothing like the anger I feel at myself. After all, you are what you are: a half-witted nincompoop, a brazen gimcrack, a bellyaching gasbag full of hokum and moonshine. However, I am an intelligent woman with loads of delicious fuel for some lucky hunk of man to drown in. But not you. This well is dry for you, Snotrag. This fuel station is closed and has relocated to WokeTown.
Bugger off, you churlish, clack dish clod. You are the source of all unpleasantness. You remind me of a cockroach. You are unreservedly pathetic, starved for attention, and lost in a land that reality forgot. You snail-skulled little rabbit. I hope a hawk picks you up and drives its sharp beak into your feeble brain.
You are less than nothing. Go back to the hell that spawned you.
Me? I will never give up.