Letter to an “ex-friend”

Here’s a lesson for you. You better not mess with a writer, because she will psycho-analyze the shit out of herself, everyone around her, and the entirety of your existence.

It will make her reconsider everything she thought she knew, it will make her question everything she had deduced about you, and it will make her re-evaluate the rest of her life. If she’d been completely wrong about you, what else could she have overlooked?

Four thousand times a week, she will think back to what happened over the course of an hour…but don’t flatter yourself. You’re just a name…barely a face.

I was so mad. I was so CONFUSED. I felt like someone had slashed my tether to my space station, and I was just stranded, floating around in space, unsure of who and what was around me.

But let’s talk about you, and the way you’re re-inforcing the stereotype concerning people like you, convincing me that too often, I give others the benefit of the doubt, and that there really are hidden agendas.

You’ve shown me just how great people are at facades, that a friendship built on a solid-looking-enough foundation can crumble so easily, and that some people have NO HONOR or COURAGE to at least acknowledge that they’ve done something wrong, or at least try to sort out the gray area.

Now, when I see you, we sort of enter into this competition where we’ll eye each other discreetly and think, who won?

Who looks like they’re having more fun? Who is going places in life? We both know things about each other that we now wish we hadn’t revealed. I have no clue what you’re doing with that information, but I haven’t touched mine.

< Related: Letters to old friends about why we’re not friends today >


Who won? 

No one wins these sort of competitions. They are stupid and petty and a race to the bottom.

Trust me, I’ve thought about this so much over these past few weeks, and struggled to decide whether or not I should do something…say something…

I guess this is the best way I could take the ideas ricocheting off the walls of my brain and splatter them violently across the pages of my journal, then refine them into coherent sentences for the internet’s eye to see.

I don’t hate you. I’m not try to hate anyone, even if I say that I do sometimes.

I ain’t even mad anymore. I have decided that you aren’t worth my anger. It’s too much effort.

Nah, you didn’t break me. Nothing could break me!

You just left a crack.

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