It’s Over, Stop Texting Me
Despite what you may consider to be evidence to the contrary, I am a person with my own life — one that no longer includes you. Yes, I know. It’s weird. I have friends, family, a job, interests, a life. Since we separated, the earth has continued to orbit around the sun and life is going pretty well, all things considered. So when you are drunk, and likely horny — or just nostalgic — and looking for a target for your misguided, poorly-spelled texts, please skip right past my name in your contacts.
Because, you see, I’ve learned the way this redundant game is played. You reach out, temporarily interested in what I have to say (though much more interested in having someone stroke your ego by being ready to respond at all hours of the night), and I am lulled into the brief delusion that you might actually care about me as a human being. Then, of course, whatever alcohol-or-boredom-induced stupor you were in when you messaged me evaporates and you return to your senses to promptly go back to your routine of ignoring me completely and/or being a dick.
It took me a little bit, but I think I’ve got it down by now.
I’m sorry to disappoint you with what is surely the shocking news that I will no longer be your emotional punching bag/shoulder to crysturbate on, but it’s true. It’s far more important now that I collect the slightly-tarnished pieces of my pride and delete you permanently from my address book, and my life. Devoting even a minute to someone who is using me to feel better about themselves (but wouldn’t actually date me, don’t be silly!) has just gotten embarrassing. That’s right — I was being embarrassing. I was letting you come to me whenever you felt like it and was always ready to come to your call, tail between my legs, ready for a few minutes of attention.
You should be proud of yourself, I guess, for making someone who loved you feel so pathetic over their inability to release themselves from your possession. That has to be an achievement by some standards, and I always considered myself a pretty independent person outside of this particular situation, so it’s not like winning me over in the first place was easy. But you did win me over, and you got bored of me, and were happy to string me along because I was always good for a quick call or maybe the errant hook-up. Who allows ten messages to go unanswered — a month of silence to stretch on — and still be excited when the other person finally decides to respond? I did.
But that is over. That window of temporary insanity into which you inserted yourself with the precision of a cat burglar has, unfortunately for you, closed. I’ve been lucky enough to be surrounded by other people who love me — and don’t just say so when they’re looking for sex or to be coddled for a few hours — and they’ve reminded me that I am worth more than you could offer, even if you were trying. I haven’t been responding to you, and now (of course) your ears are perking up like a dog that had lost the scent for a pace or two but has quickly found it again. Suddenly, I’m interesting. I’m sexy. I have something you can’t have, and that drives you crazy.
And it would all be so easy, I’m sure, if this were just some game of cat-and-mouse in which I was trying to win you back. But I am simply no longer interested. Unlike you, I do not need to play some elaborate game in order to convey an otherwise mundane emotion. I have only realized that I’ve been dragging myself through the mud for some time now, and now I’m ready to take a much-needed shower.
I encourage you to find someone else, I do. I want you to be happy, and to stop texting me when you find yourself unexpectedly alone on a Friday night. Don’t think that I believe you to be an entirely bad person — you’re not. Immature, selfish, disingenuous, sure. But entirely bad? No. You are just entirely bad for me, and responding to you is only dragging the both of us down to an unacceptably pitiful level. I’m sure there are many other lovely ladies you can reach out to when your bed feels a little too empty, but wherever you store that checklist, please be so kind as to cross me off of it.
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Even as I write this now I am debating whether or not to erase it all together.
When I say I’m in love with you, I mean I love the story I can tell to my next lover, about my ex-lover, about how beautiful things were, how intense, how storybook, what a couple we were, and how you gradually, inexplicably, painfully, bit by bit, disappeared.
“I used to be afraid of failing at something that really mattered to me, but now I’m more afraid of succeeding at things that don’t matter.”
I was 24 and, while not gay, ever since college I had been getting more attention from gay men than from heterosexual women.