Dear John,
It’s funny, you know, writing your first name after the salutation so common in letters- one might think that you are a sturdy, kind, strong, and patriotic G.I. for whom I am pining. Oh, they would be so wrong. You are a spineless, manipulative, twiggy pothead of a scumbag.
But I do want to thank you.
I thought that I wanted to spirit myself around in college. I thought, silly little me, that hooking up could be fun. I thought that I wanted to have Fun. With a capital F. Sometimes ending with a ck, not an n. And you, dear dear fuckhead, you proved me wrong. Thank you. Instead of me taking years to get that out of my system you grunted it out in a matter of months.
Some might think that’s a dirty reference, but oh they should know that’s about all I remember you ever saying to me. Once upon a night, we lay around afterword and I heard your dog’s name. I remember thinking maybe this is something. We’re going places. I remember thinking that and now I look back and I wonder what the fuck I was thinking. But I must say that there’s some biological evidence for when a girl loses their virginity they like, imprint on their partner. I thought you were sweet, somewhere in that thick and privileged skull you had any feelings at all. And you might. You might feel real things for people who you aren’t asking to go down on you because you’re so tired.
You treated me like I was something you could have whenever you wanted, and I let you treat me like that, tricking myself into thinking that I had any power in that. I was empowered! I was having sex! I was wondering whether or not you like-liked me. I left you a note on your pillow with my number and a heart before my name and saying I had fun, because that was polite. It was nice. I didn’t want to hurt you. I drank half a fifth of Fireball with you. I threw up, sans clothing in your bed. And you deposited me back to my friends. You know that’s like borderline sexual assault right?
Anyway. Did you notice that I was sick? No, don’t worry, not with an STI or anything… I’d be more afraid of getting it from you. Did you notice I was slowly dying, that I, Madeline, I was dead really by that time? I don’t know who you saw, and who you looked at– ok slept next to, I doubt you ever looked at me really. I wonder about that sometimes. I wonder whether you would like me, want to fuck around with me, want to hurt me like you did. I wonder if I would let you now.
Anyway.
Anyway.
Thank you. Thank you for pushing dead me a little closer to live me.
And continue to fuck off.
Much animosity,
Madi
A Lot Good 