Dear R.

Dear R:

Here’s the thing— you left me feeling even more like shit than I did already. Maybe you didn’t mean to. I don’t know, you probably didn’t, but I don’t have the energy (or is it the courage?) to ask you, and I don’t really want to listen to whatever response, whatever excuses you have to give.

M says you didn’t mean to hurt me, but he still thinks you’re kind of ugly, and an asshole, and I’m one hundred times better than you. I don’t trust him on this one because he’s never liked you that much. He says when he talked to you about “it” (about us), you said you don’t want to put any effort into a relationship.

That’s just fucked up. You say a want a girl to be “independent.” Well, that’s fine. I’m a fucking feminist. I’m pretty damn independent. I paid for myself whenever we went out, except those few times when you bought me drinks, and goddamnit, you offered. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I wouldn’t mind a guy who’d pay for me on dates, who’d call me without being prompted, who’d initiate the relationship.

At this point, I want to be courted. I want to be taken care of. And maybe that’s selfish, but it’s not, because if we had worked out, I would have taken care of you, too. Not financially, and don’t think it doesn’t piss me off the way you’re so obsessed with money, but emotionally and physically. We could have taken care of each other.

And now I don’t even know what to say to you. You’re mad because I didn’t say hello to you? I said hello, a hundred times. You just weren’t listening.

Will we ever be friends again? Were we ever really friends? I think maybe just casual acquaintances. I feel like I told you so much about myself but never learned anything about you, in spite of the fact that most of the time, all you ever talk about is yourself.

So, yeah. Friends? I don’t know. Maybe. But it’s not going to be like it was. I don’t want to touch anymore, I don’t want you to hold me. I’m not a friends-with-benefits type of girl, and I’m sorry if I connect physical intimacy with emotional intimacy. Right now I need the latter desperately, and I’m afraid that I’m going to confuse it with the former. Hell, that’s what happened with you.

I’m sorry if I’m not cool enough, or punk enough, or unique enough for you. All of our friends said it would be a mistake to fall for you, and they were right. (They also said I’m too pretty for you, and I want to believe them.)

Sincerely (Not Love),

Miss Representation

P.S.— Kissing you was entirely uneventful. I didn’t feel anything like excitement, just hope. Hope that it would get better, because I wanted to be with you, with someone. I don’t know if it’s because you’re a particularly bad kisser (I don’t remember the details of your technique) or just that we had no chemistry. The only chemistry you have is with yourself.

P.P.S.— You breath stinks and your teeth are really yellow. Invest in a better toothbrush, please. Maybe your punk rock girl doesn’t care, but if she doesn’t? I bet she hasn’t tasted you yet.