Dear John,
Here's what I really wanted to say...
Sometimes I just get frustrated, then I have a couple of drinks. I'm probably getting my period too. I feel like I have all these emotions swirling around with no one to listen to them who doesn't think I'm at least half insane. Maybe I am. I probably am. Ok, I am. It's fine. But this still doesn't answer this question:
What the fuck is your problem?
I'm really over the whole '18 year old jock in a 26 year old hipster body' act. You can't fuck everything that walks. People have feelings, you know. It's not going to fill your void.
And did you know that I'm a really good catch? Most of the time, I'm really smart and funny. Except for the times when I'm not, like right now. And probably every time we hang out because you make me nervous. By the way, I have a pretty awesome vagina, and I can talk to you about the subtle nuances of Marx's Das Kapital. What more do you want? I'm not made of magic golden wishes, but pretty close.
But instead, I write you to pretend I never told you how I felt. Just forget it. Forget about me, really. Even though I don't really mean it, wait, why do I say these things? That's the thing isn't it? Only you know me, that's why it's all so frustrating. Then you can't blame me for overreacting from time to time.
Maybe you should just go home with that stripper over there.
Wait, I didn't mean it.
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