A love letter

To my dear exboyfriend (yes, I know your name, Dipshit – but the anonymity is for your protection)

Oh who am I kidding, You are no longer dear.

So we begin again.

Hello dipshit.  (That’s the fond version of your name)

I was deeply pissed off with you tonight, when I realized how I have been avoiding things I love that remind me of you. Why oh why are you lurking in every obscure thing and place?

Oh don’t get me wrong, I’ve totally gotten over the fear of seeing your car on the road, or bumping into you in the supermarket. Although, if I saw your mother, not only would that scare me, but I would live the  fantasy about calling her a cow to her face, for the very first, rewarding time.

Tonight, I was particularly in the mood for a thai green curry. Oh you took such pride in making it, and ate it like you’d never see it again. God help me if I even took a morsel off your plate.

But I loved that fucking curry before you were born (yes, being older had some advantages). So I am claiming it, and every restaurant we ate it at, back. That okay with you, Dipshit? (You don’t deserve a capital letter.)

Yes, I wrote this after a bottle chardonnay, taking obscure pics on photobooth with my dear friend. Yes. I thought also about your boiled egg surprise – how utterly charming to smear your egg over a melee of strawberry jam and mayonnaise – one would swear you were pregnant sometimes.

I do not miss your bromance and your lies. I do not miss your silence and your fury. I do not miss your apathetic approach to my orgasm. (I hear an audible shameful gasp from all female folk.)

(I don’t even miss your tufty bum…)

So. Dipshit. I hope life is treating you well, that your bromance continues to blossom, that Thai green curry burns an acrid (sam-shaped) hole in your heart.

Please piss off to another country, or city even. And take your tufty bum with you.