For some reason I have always been attracted to pricks or people that are unattainable. If you ignore me at a social gathering, I’ll probably develop a crush on you. If you read my message and don’t reply, but then Tweet, I’ll notice that too and be further intrigued. As a result, I’ve been left with a lot of things I wish I had said and would had done if I were braver/angrier/marginally crazier.
Hindsight always works so much better than present tense, and as such we really regret everything we wanted to say but couldn’t in that moment. Sometimes it’s due to fear of their reaction; other times it’s because you’re so absorbed in the situation your brain doesn’t work at a fast enough pace. You can’t stutter the words out. And sometimes it’s simply because you don’t know what exactly should be said, or how to say it. Below are five texts I wish I’d sent to guys I’ve dated or had flings with over the years. (Obviously I omitted names; I’m not a total dick.)
Dear Blank ‘Blank’ Blankie,
I was a great fit for you until someone more attractive came along and, despite having everything in common and we held conversations that flowed effortlessly, you chose someone ‘hotter’ over me. As if your moral compass couldn’t be anymore dented, the guy was actually one of my close friends – a clear sign that your emotionally equilibrium is off. Your vain, morally bankrupt behaviour drove a wedge in-between a friendship that had lasted for years and you didn’t even have the balls to admit to either of us what you actually wanted. As a result, you ended up alone, but clung to me when things went sour as that was the easier option. The texture of your face isn’t right, it felt like wet Play-Doh. And you could easily be cast as an Elf in any Christmas nativity (but not the cute kind.)
I’m sorry to tell you this but you’re a sloppy drunk. You’re abusive, obnoxious and your incessant ramblings about the meaning behind ‘everything’ make me want to pour battery acid into my ear and melt my brain with it. Your friendship circle is mostly composed of pretentious tossers who, if they ever excel far enough in yoga, will likely bend over and lick their own arse holes. The majority of our time together felt as if it was all under your terms. I regret following your lead like an obedient little sheep dog. All I ever wanted was to be there for you and for you to love me back and I’m sorry if that affected you in ‘some way.’ But mostly I’m actually not sorry at all. You weren’t kind to me. You hit me, hurled verbal abuse at me and used me for sex and cold comfort and all the while preached that you were the victim and that I was the monster. You may think that you’re a nice guy, and maybe you are, but you aren’t a good guy. If you were you wouldn’t have used me to ‘figure things out’, or as a rebound, punching bag or replacement. And I am not sorry I cannot be in your life anymore, but I do forgive all the things you put me through over the years – even though I’m sure you do not forgive me. It is most certainly better this way.
All the best,
Dear Stupid Haircut,
I am sorry I have declined your multiple attempts to ride me like a bike, but I don’t collect STDs the same way I do Pokémon. That hug you gave me one time in the middle of the supermarket was really cute, but I think that is the only redeeming quality to memory throughout our entire ‘friendship.’ I blocked you on Snapchat because I don’t appreciate my attempts at civilised conversation either being blanked or met with cum shots and dick pics. I am not your whore. You are a slutty little dick-swinger who puts his own sexual needs in front of everything else.
Dear Blanka ‘BO’ Blank.
I didn’t fuck you so you yelled at me in a room full of people. You made me feel like some sort of prude for not wanting to put out, which isn’t fair. I really think you need therapy to deal with the plethora of commitment issues you need to work through. Your obsequious scrutiny of my attire and constant mockery of my skinny jeans really wore me down. The 90s called, they want their straight leg jeans back. What was even less fun than having my outfits critiqued was having to pretend your personal hygiene was in anyway acceptable. You passed wind so much whilst you slept I fear that if anyone were to have sex with you it would be like ‘dicking’ a Whoopi Cushion. During the whole one and half rounds of intercourse we had I imagined myself floating above the bed and also Tweeted. Twice. I knew we wouldn’t work out after we attended that raucous party together and you kept leaving me to spend time with your coke-nose friends. I missed you keenly for a moment and then overheard you telling someone you were going to ‘deep-dick’ me. Which I know wasn’t going to happen because 1) You made realise I had self-respect and 2) your penis was tiny. It couldn’t plug the tiniest of leaks.
I hope you aren’t doing well. Prick.
Our friendship blossomed under false pretences and as such I fell in love with you, but not you with me. I felt like your emotional guinea pig; there when it suited you or when you were wanting to indulge. You were either too cowardly to say being with me wasn’t for you, or too ashamed to admit it was. Either or I wound up hurt and heartbroken and will forever associate numerous Taylor Swift songs with you – which I will never forgive you for. Our romance was a game of Cat and Mouse frequently put on hold whenever you got cold feet or met someone ‘new’ but always it left me in a perpetual state of emotional turmoil. The times when I kissed you were some of the best moments of my life, but the hurt that followed tipped the scales. When I told you I loved you and you didn’t reciprocate, you should have immediately cut me out your life as I blatantly didn’t have the strength to do it. I don’t regret meeting you that night, but I do wish I’d exercised more caution and control around you and thus could have spared myself from all the hurt. Your body was weirdly warm all the time, and you had terrible morning breath, but I loved you anyway. (‘loved’ past tense. You’re free of me. Go and be happy, that’s all I want for you.)