Wherein I tell an old friend to go fuck himself

Parting is such sweet sorrow.
There is parting.

Is there ever parting?

Sometimes I need to bid you fucking adieu.
Sometimes I do.

Many times I forget you and that thing you do so well: creep into my weak mind when I least need or expect you.
You drop in at the most inopportune times. When I’m just trying to live my life. My simple, undistracted life.
You won’t have it.

Let him go in peace.

That was never your motto.
Not you. You slimy piece of crap.
Can’t let me rest can you?

Parting is such sweet sorrow.
Can we part?

What will do it, what is it that will allow me to fling your spiny little slimeshit body right out the window.

When can we turn our backs on each other once and for all.
When will my lust for you, my cravings for your cold touch, finally subside into the great beyond?

Not when I’m finally dead.
Please no.

That’s too late and someone once told me I deserve a splendid life.
With you.
There is no splendid.

There is fog.
And hell.
And helpless.

But no splendid.

You’ve never done a damn thing for me.

You have actually.
But it was all empty and hollow shit.
Nothing of substance. You’re like those fucking robots who bark “Hi, how are you doing!” out every day.

Yup, you’re nothing but a vapid ego stroke.
You pulled the wool over my eyes. You lied to me and convinced me to lie to myself. And everyone else.

You’re a sinister and conniving bitch.
So tonight.
Let’s spend our final evening.

Shall we kiss goodbye?
Of course.
Without the kiss.
There is nothing.

Before we part.
I will be honest.
We had great times together.
Many of my grandest memories (too many) were spent with you.
With you I might have become more.
Without you…I might have become greater.

Is there a photoalbum?
Our family. Our terrain of pain?

I wonder if our love affair could ever be chronicled in pictures.
I doubt that.

I bid you adieu.

You piece of shit.
Therein lies the problem.

I endow you with value, with evil. I make you something. And you are nothing.
In fact, this whole post is about making you something and publicizing your manipulative ass.

On that note, later.

You fuck.

4 Replies to “Wherein I tell an old friend to go fuck himself”

  1. Is it fate that made you write this at this very time, as I end a diseased friendship? Diseased. Poisonous. Infectious. Whereas it could have been simple, a simple “it is time for us to go our own ways, I want no part of how you handle your life and feel it best you not be around my children” instead it turns into a melodramatic scene of epic proportions. Ennding with the ultimately fitting, “Fuck You”

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