A Letter Addressed to No One

S,

I stumbled upon your profile and seeing you again after all these years feels very weird indeed. I remember all the hurt feelings that I hid and all the things I made myself ignore to make the person I cared about at the time happy. I tortured myself thinking that maybe if I were more like you, perhaps that person will take notice. Perhaps if I had less respect for myself or if I weren't so bookish that I could take the crude "your mom" and penis jokes a little better. Or if I smoked pot (eww. What was I thinking?), I would be cooler in both your eyes. I looked at myself everyday in the mirror thinking of ways to be better, prettier. Maybe if I acted less intelligent, acted less "cultured," (and fuck you for making me feel bad about not wanting a tacky Louis Vuitton backpack and making me feel awful about reading more books that you) more abrasive, more skanky and more "laid back" (read: open to anal sex and being called a cumbucket)... hoping that maybe everything will get better. I couldn't do that to myself, and for a time you won. I died a little everyday after that. It did not get better until today.

And now I see you, after everything that has happened and I see that you are nothing. You're just an ugly, oily, wrinkled, brown piece of overtanned jerky who can't spell. You look sixty and you're only in your twenties. Your fiancee has dumped your skanky ass and you're still working odd jobs (a dinky tanning salon? REALLY? Is that why you're so jerky-like? You buy your own shit to boost your sales. EWW.). So much for all the talks of you being a successful executive and fabulous and better than me (even without a college degree or no known values? Hmmm.). I'm glad you are both out of my life. The friendship was never really good to begin with anyway. So I say goodbye to you now, happier about myself that I've been for over four years. I can't believe I considered you as someone worthwhile. I can't believe I thought what happened was my worst nightmare because you're better than me. You're not.

I wish you no success, because that would be futile. Keep away from married men because you never know who may want your head on a platter next and may your new job give you a really bad case of skin cancer.

With absolutely no love and only a lingering feeling of betrayal,

Lyra