We’re breaking up. I’m already over you, and this thing between us is just lingering like a bad hangover after a night of pounding $10 tequila shots at the bar. Neither my body nor my wallet can handle your shit anymore. My heating bill is through the roof and your dick-move winds are forcing me to waste money on the bus. I’ve been wearing every piece of clothing I own just to go outside every day, and it’s still not enough for you; the cold seeps into my bones the moment I open my front door. My feet have been permanently numb since January.
I spend my days fantasizing about the warm, wet embrace (oops, that’s gross…) of Spring, dreaming about romantic getaways and long walks on the beach with Summer, reminiscing about the mild-mannered ways of dear Fall. With you? There is nothing left for us together but a dried-up crust of a relationship— to me, you are the crunchy burnt lining caked on the pot, the dregs of my morning oatmeal that staunchly refuse to unlatch themselves from the metal. In short, you are a class A jerk and you have overstayed your welcome. I’m still not sure how it took me so many years to realize it.
So, fuck you. Fuck your too-early nights and your ice-laden sunrises, your sudden storms and your winds. Fuck your initial pretense of merriment with the holidays you offered. Fuck it all! If you were tangible, I would throw you against the wall until you ripped open or shattered into a million pieces. I would hurl at you the harshest vitriol I could muster, then spit at your feet and storm away [ha! storm!]. If you were a book, I wouldn’t read you. If you were a plant, I’d let you die. And if we were in a game of Angry Birds, I would be the black bomber crow and you would be the smarmy pig with a helmet, and I would blow you and all your brethren to smithereens and laugh maniacally!
God damn it, all I really want to tell you is this: get out of my face, asshole.