Remember that time after months of silence you sent me a card on my birthday to “show me you still care.” Even though you had a new girlfriend.
Then you texted me poems of how much you missed me. You were contemplating leaving her for me. You didn’t even ask if I missed you or if I wanted to get back together with you.
You assumed I did, because that’s how it always was. You would ignore me for months and then put the least bit of effort and there I would be, back at your feet again, your doormat. But worse than a doormat you thoughtfully picked out from home goods, or Bed Bath and Beyond, or even the dollar store. A doormat that you stuffed in a closet and only used when the weather was bad, so mud wouldn’t get in the house.
Well this letter is to return the favor. Essentially I took the time out of my life to construe these words together so maybe you can get insight into how much I still care.
Remember the time I expressed my concern of your excessive drug use. Instead of recognizing my genuine concern for your wellbeing you took offense.
I told you I thought it was sad that you smoked as soon as you woke up in the morning and continually to make it through the day. You snapped at me and told me it mad you “happy.” You said the word as if it were some alien object I would never understand, and certainly never experience. You rubbed it in my face, as if I didn’t know what it meant to be happy, like I didn’t deserve it.
When you contacted me after months of silence you realized that I had done the impossible. I was happy. Without you. Happy. So you decided to inject your poison back into my life. With delusions of you breaking up with your girlfriend. Only to realize I still cared.
The fact I still cared immediately gave you enough satisfaction to decide you were better without me. And there was no way I was truly happy without you. So you left.
And there the doormat goes, back in the closet. Only to be used again on a rainy day. Left in the dark, waiting to serve my rightful duty as your muddy shoe’s soul mate.
This is letter to show you I still care.
I do think it’s sad that you take pride in smoking pot. As if it’s some sort of huge accomplishment you worked really hard at. You’re almost 24.
I think it’s sad that you need to bring me down in order to make yourself feel happy. Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t know what true happiness is.
I think it’s sad you have no goals, ambition, or future plans. You always thought of it as being happy in the moment. I’m here to tell you that’s mediocracy.
I think it’s sad you have no desire to create art, read, make the world more beautiful. Seeing the world as more beautiful due to being high doesn’t count.
I think it’s sad you’re so selfish you almost broke up with your girlfriend of one month because it killed you to see me happy. You wound up staying with her. Not sure which part is sadder.
I think it’s sad that you are so concerned with your tiny little world you don’t aspire to explore, learn, or further educate yourself. Good thing you’re content being mediocre.
I think it’s sad that after four years of being in a relationship you still act like were in high school. Playing games to get my attention, and make me jealous is so whack.
I think it’s sad that if you’re not still in love with me you still go out of your way to rub your relationship and “happiness” in my face. Get over yourself.
I think it’s sad that I know you are as obsessed with me as I am with you, yet you’re too scared what your friends would think if we got back together. Don’t worry it’s never going to happen.
I think you’re sad and use marajuana to numb the pain of what is on the road to be a long, meaningless life. One day, I’ll be able to say I told ya so. But I’ll be busy doing better things so I won’t.
I think you’re sad.