No no, don’t speak. It will be easier for us both if I simply make a quiet exit.
Why, you ask? You can’t be serious. Because you’re a liar, that’s why.
Well, there was the time you convinced me that dancing on the table in three-inch heels was a fun, safe way to show my appreciation for the many talents of the band, (who, I might add, I didn’t even enjoy until you came along). O, and let’s not forget when you insisted that Foster actually looked more like John Mayor with freckles and less like Gimli the Dwarf than I originally thought. You later tried to gloss it over by saying you simply wanted the poor guy to get some much needed experience, but let’s not delve further into this topic for fear of dredging up unpleasant details best left to my muddy memory on the subject.
In the beginning, you were fun to have around. I always felt more beautiful in your presence, like I could have any man I wanted, like I could fly. We laughed together, cried together, ran across the quad without any…well, you get the point.
The trouble started when I began believing I needed you. It didn’t take long after our introduction for this realization to take hold. I needed you to dance, to flirt, to smile, to feel. This dependency leaves me with bitter memories of those who, I thought, loved me, when in reality, they loved what you made of me. I’m afraid that I won’t love myself without you, but fear and doubt are your sisters, and I will not listen to them.
Perhaps one day, we can learn how to have an easy friendship. Maybe we’ll be able to sit down and have a relaxing evening with my mom, or Steven Colbert, (I see the latter more often). Until then, I have to insist that you go.
O, and a word of advice; stay away from Pot. You two never get along, and it always gets ugly, so just save yourselves the agony.