This has nothing to do with SL.

This is my need to…I don’t even know what.

Men, what the hell is your problem? Seriously, explain it to me, please, because I’m starting to believe that your gender holds an inherent psychological condition that renders you innately incapable or at least unwilling to make a woman happy, at best, or desirous to make her miserable at worst. And it doesn’t matter who you men are. It doesn’t matter if you look like Josh Hartnett and make $200k a year or like Peter Griffith and live in your parents’ basement (and I’ve dated both, so I would know) you are both exactly the same.

Why would you tell a girl you love her, appease every one of her concerns, come at her with such trite declarations as “Why can’t you just be happy?” or “Why can’t you just trust me?” and as soon as she gets slightly happy, and as soon as she does come to slightly trust you, you turn around and say something along the lines of “Never mind.”

STOP it with that shit. Because it isn’t the first time it’s happened to me, and I’m angered to say that it won’t be the last. The biggest curse my gender has to deal with is that we depend on you for the satisfaction of our sexual want. Lesbians found a loop around the system. I envy them for that. But here I am, sitting here and thinking, cocks cocks cocks.

And the most annoying thing is, that when you do break a woman’s heart, you tend to replace her with just another version of the same thing. What you are in pursuit of is the illusion of novelty, and that fundamentally prevents you from developing anything real or worthwhile with anyone. And it’s exhausting. It’s exhausting as hell to go through this, over and over, ad nauseum, the same phases, the same words, the same eventual, sour conclusion. Cut that shit out, already. Stop telling me what you think I want to hear, because I don’t want to hear it if you don’t mean that. And if it is something as important, as deal-changing, and as eternal as an “I love you,” then make sure that you really do.

Make sure that what you mean to say isn’t “I want you” or “I want love” or “I don’t want to be alone.” And in the end, if you’ve really made the fatal error and completely obliterated the worldview of your romantic partner, don’t shrug your shoulders and say, with an oh-so-precious tear running down your cheek, “I was trying my best.”

And for the record, your admission of guilt doesn’t make it any easier for us. If anything, having you say, “I know I’m the asshole in this,” in that diplomatic, infuriating tone of yours, like you’re holding a business negotiation, only makes it hurt that much more for us. Don’t you realize that we want to Satanize you? Don’t you realize that we want to call you a little man? Don’t you realize that we want to beat you over the head with a baseball bat and that just isn’t feasible if you gently knock yourself out before we’ve even had the opportunity to swing?

And in the end, no matter how much we believed we loved you, what we really loved was the idea of you. See, the idea of you we loved was the idea you presented. You were the man we thought would never betray us, would always protect us. You were the man we pointed out to ourselves whenever our friends complained about their relationships. You were the one we bragged about, “Wow, look how lucky I got. He’s not like the rest. This one’s different. This one’s special.” But by the mere virtue of becoming one of them, you sterile inconsiderate jackass, you’ve broken only our idealism but not our hearts.

And if two weeks was all that it took me to get over you, then I was probably as callous about this thing as you were. But when you said, “What we had was love. What else could it have been?” all I wanted was to tell you everything I’ve ever thought about you.

Everything you ever were, was a lie. You are a coward. You are spineless, asexual, boring. You are Wonderbread. I never found your stories interesting. You were never a good lay and your physical sexual appeal was wasted, you impotent milktoast. You little man. Our relationship reminded you of a Tolstoy short story? How delicious. I hope you fall off the edge of the Earth. I hope you marry a fat girl that thinks she’s funny. I hope you cry. You fucking fuck. You didn’t deserve me. I was the best thing that happened to you in your 27 years on this planet and you should be grateful as all fuck to have dipped your prick inside of me. You waste. You aberrant. You idiot. Manipulative, self-absorbed, fickle, and stupid. I don’t like that picture. I never loved you or your stupid voice. I hated the way you smelled in the morning. Thank you for your exhalations and your never minds, and you calling it off a week before Valentine’s day. Because that night, I was in bed with someone else. And tonight, I’ll be in bed with him again. And it doesn’t even matter if you know about it, or even if you care. All that matters is that I’ve never given you anything of me that I wanted to keep. So enjoy the experience, Tolstoy fan. Let me be something that happened to you. In the end, I’m the one that got away, and you were the one I really needed to get away from.