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| Dear Dumped |
Darling,
The other night out with you reminds me of one thing.
Gall. Really, I truly impress myself with my occasional blatant public demonstrations of acidic gall. When I think of the time I spent, I shiver with retching heaves of disgust and loathing. Loathing and foaming, amazed at my barefaced audacity. Enduring irreplaceable hours of my finite life with you, moments lost, forever wasted. And cherished like seeing my dog give birth to eight stillborn puppies. Then watching her eat them. Worse than watching my First Love slowly saw her finger off during a negative acid trip. Like a scalding-hot enema straight up the ass.
What I unwillingly recall of you smells like fresh steaming vomit on hot steel grating. Making me want to stand over the steel, contributing. Blowing chunks. Heaving. Thinking of you. I had more fun getting my cock tattooed with a dull, dirty needle.
My impulsivity and outrageous gall have slain me resoundingly for the last time. The rush and panic of sudden intense pain during the experience was supplanted with a chronic, cancer-like ache. I languish in an abysmal sea of despair, desolation, and intensely potent randomly taken prescription drugs. My cells have ceased dividing. The most exertion now made consists of swatting inflated Trojans at the wall above the sofa in a one-man volleyball game. I moved the fridge into the living room so I don't need to move much. I almost lost it when the remote's batteries died.
I do not deny the consequent, pitiful nature of my life. My only reprieve in life is that there exist people more trivial, banal and useless than me.
People like you. I don't like you. Frankly, I think you're dangerous. Keep the hell away from me. I fear the disgust you give me.
We'll not meet again.
Me
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