It was bound to happen sooner or later… and finally, thank heavens… I’m at a place where I can hate him out loud.
You’re welcome…. pour yourself a drink first- some of this isn’t going to be easy to read.
Perhaps you should buy the domain name… ya know… since you like to mimic other people.
I put my judgement aside for my heart, something I don’t regret because I know eventually it will result in my happily ever after. I bought new panties and flew across the globe with nothing but faith in my pockets. I lost a lot in this disaster, but I’ll never let you steal the hope you encouraged me to have. <eyeroll>
I let you know my flight was an hour late. You said you couldn’t wait to see me…. and I land… and ??? Bad form, dude… seriously. Even my 25 year old boy toy was always on time. Perhaps that’s a side effect of dating an older man? You need your beauty sleep? Clearly you’ve missed a lot of it.
I have dated disasters, rich boys, poor boys, hot boys, weirdos… hoarders and faithful gentleman. Nothing holds a candle to my four days with you, and that’s saying something. FYI… that’s not a compliment. Fucking you made me miss the Vagina Hoarder.
For all your criticisms and demands for perfection, you fall very short. You don’t qualify for a six foot anything, blonde or otherwise- and I’d love the number of one girl you’ve dated in her twenties. Oh and your wife’s number too so I can warn her you’re having unprotected sex.
The funniest detail that only a select few know? lol… I went to lunch with my girlfriends a month before I left to see you, and got tipsy on Cuervo Gold margaritas, and asked if you were married. It was a tipsy hunch, and they’re usually right. You FLIPPED out, and told me if I didn’t send you the headers from the email that told me you were, you’d never speak to me again. I was simply curious, looking for a little reassurance- and didn’t see your overreaction coming. I opened up my blog and sent you the headers from some “Penis Enlargement” spam comment that had come in… thinking that’d be the end of it. You emailed me and told me “SHE” was a fat brunette that lived near your ex. The mythical Cylie… if she even exists. It was the first very real, very red, flag. You brought her up while we were together and I changed the subject. I did my best to help you keep your red flags in your very full closet, but even I can’t hide THAT many women.
I should have known. I should have guessed… and it’s on me for being delusional. You wrote about me and exploited every single weakness I have in a few hundred words. You’re the original snake oil salesman, and you continue to manipulate me with my poor tattered heart. Fuck you. Fuck your bullshit words, fuck your lies and fuck your old ass attempts to be more than you are. You are as tragic as I am gullible.
I may be 20 pounds overweight, but Sugar you’re a con-artist and I can go on a diet.
I quit smoking for you, ya asshole. That was the longest four days of my life, especially given the stress level of babysitting an old man who acts like a spoiled frat boy with a few drinks. Honey, learn to handle your liquor or find yourself an AA meeting. ASAP.
Your racist bullshit views made me choke back the vomit they required. You wont waste another moment in my life, but you’ll serve as an example, forever.
Thou shalt not sell out for a ticket to paradise when you’re sick of the snow.
Thou shalt not date someone 15 years older than you’re used to, unless he rises to the occasion and is worth the sacrifice…. <cough>… keep talking about Anna Faris’s abs… it’s as close as you’ll ever get to them.
Your big daddy plan? To cut off your baby girl when she turns 18 because all she loves you for is the check you put in the mail? That’s just pathetic. You’re an idiot for not giving a shit and she’s a smart girl for knowing what you’re good for. PS… I have her Facebook page bookmarked- just in case you ever think twice about fucking with me. Tip of the iceberg, my dear… and you’re a fool for not paying attention to what happens to boys who shake the hive. There aren’t bees tattooed on me by accident, and you know what a nasty little insect I can be when inspired.
It’s sort of sad to have to tell a man what he falls so short in, but then I sort of appoint myself to do so when it’s necessary.
It’s incredibly bad form to walk in front of a woman. Seriously. I can hear my grandfather rolling over in his grave. Your whole fixation on Mormon girls is not going to ever play out because you are so not good enough for us. We’re raised to believe we’re women, ladies…and absolutely the greatest treasure, worth protecting and guarding. In all of Doucheville, you’re the first douche to walk with your back to me while other men smiled appreciatively. Oish.
Watching the people around us laugh at you and roll their eyes at me was the real moment that resonates. Watching you hit on a woman willing to buy her way out of your reach was priceless. I’m reminded <yet again> of my favorite quote.
Regardless of desire, life hands you who you are.
I don’t care how much money you make. I don’t care what you do for a living. I don’t care about you. I went with an open heart and the best of intentions and came home in a wheel chair. Suffice it to say, if you ever come to Idaho, you’d be really lucky to leave in the same condition.
Juggling bloggers, recycling words and capitalizing on the suffering of the women who are open enough to share it… aren’t you a prize. Does it make you feel better about your sad little life to create a fantasy for someone to fall prey to? I think so.
I’m deadly when underestimated. There aren’t skeletons in my closet, there’s a case of body bags…. and when you fuck with me, you fuck with the whole trailer park. We may not be millionaires, but baby we’re real- and all the money in the world can’t buy you legitimacy. Notice who didn’t have to delete their blog…
Obsessive showers, cologne I didn’t like and watching people do a double take when they saw me sitting with you… yeah… no thanks. I don’t mind being a trophy… but only if I’m dating a thoroughbred.
The cost of shipping your shit back express mail? $60.
The drug test to determine whether you drugged me or left me vulnerable while you hit on other women on our LAST night together? $120
$300 for a weekend in Puerto Rico in February? Priceless.
I hope your wife wonders where you went and with whom. I hope she figures it out and I hope she kicks you out of the “compound” SHE owns. Google is a powerful creature, Liarpants2. Yeah… you get a pants name but yours is recycled, just like your words. You’re Nathan, part 2.
Realistically…It’ll be a cold day before I fuck Mr. Smithers for sunshine again…. and PS… I faked it.