Like each time my fingertips trace over the hills of my stretch mark riddled hips, it’s the guy whose bed I crawl in and out of each weekend who sighs, regrettably, and says that I ‘look better with the lights off.’
Let them eat cake.
Cut me out of your life with virtually no explanation. Contact me only while drunk to tell me how badly you wish you were dead. Keep me up after, ignore my calls, and worry me.