Go screw yourself

Well, by way of explanation, my therapist bade me write letters to people who are effecting me. Not real letters, nothing you’d ever send, but letters explaining the hows and whys and what went wrongs.

So here’s one to Brandon.

Brandon,

I would call you “dear” Brandon, but you are not dear. You are not a nice person. I am scared of you. I know that I told you that I cared. I know that I kissed you that night, wrapped in a blanket before the fire, eating Nutella and apples- just the two of us. I know I wrote you letters while you were in the Ukraine with the Marines.

I never read the story you wrote me, when I started it, I felt nauseated. Not only was the writing not good but your possessive sweetness was vomit-inducing.

Remember when I broke up with you? Why didn’t you leave then?

Remember when I kicked you out of my house? Why didn’t that make you mad enough to never come back?

Remember when I confronted you, that cold night in September and told you to fuck off. I told you I wasn’t attracted to you. I told you it was over. I told you to never come back. I told you I was scared of you. Why didn’t you listen to me?

Remember when I called campus security and had your butt thrown off campus? I laid awake that night, crying to myself and seeing shadows that weren’t there. Why did you come back?

Remember when the dean and I called the cops on you? Why do you still profess your love?

I’m sick of you. I hate the memories I have of us together. That picnic breakfast on the kitchen floor at six in the morning is spoiled now, the syrup too sticky, the sunlight faded. I’ll never be able to erase the night we danced by the river, the wind in my hair, your hands on my waist. Looking back I can tell that even then you weren’t man enough for me. I need someone who can take initiative, someone who is stronger than me, someone who can have ideas of his own. If you had been bold and confronted me after I broke up with you- instead of skulking around until I called the police- I might have taken you back. But no, Robert Brandon Jones, you are a coward.

Do you know why I kissed you that one last time, the day before I broke up with you? To see if I could stomach kissing that face every day for the rest of my life. I couldn’t.

You know what else? I hate you more than I hate any other lame excuse of a douche bag who has ever fallen for me. I think that the weasel-y way you would promise to back off, and then pressure me more than ever, while whispering you loved me. That is despicable. I hate the sniveling way you posted creepy, fanatical thoughts about me online. You know how you smiled when I told you I believe in happy endings? Well this doesn’t end happy, not for you anyway. So you can just go to hell.

Good bye.