I'm ending it. This relationship has become such bullshit. No, no, don't start crying. Don't you dare try to make me feel guilty.
You don't really want to be with me. You never have. You just wanted to be with someone, and I was the poor sucker who
stumbled into your bed. I guess I was desperately lonely, too. And you showed up at the bar and sauntered up to me. . .I mean,
yeah, you're attractive. You're really fucking hot. And we had a good conversation that first night – little did I know that was
the only good conversation we'd ever have. I was drunk. Too many shots of Sambuca that you kept buying me. So I went home
with you. And before I knew what had happened, you were leaving little artifacts of yourself – toothbrushes, t-shirts – at my
apartment. I didn't notice how deep I'd gotten myself into this mess, not for a couple months, cos I've been drunk the whole time.
You've been drunk the whole time. Don't you know wine and whiskey cast a false blush on the dullest of surfaces? I didn't think
so. But think about it. When we're sober, we have nothing in common. At all. On the rare occasions that we talk, it's when
we're both intoxicated. We have to be three sheets to the wind to even fuck. It's not that I mind drinking, but Christ. . .we never
do anything. You never want to go out to shows, or movies; you refuse to meet any of my friends. You don't understand me.
Honestly, hanging out with you is just a fucking chore. All you ever want to do is, like, get shitfaced and watch Elimidate.