I mark this time by thinking of you and how you fucked me over, ever-so-politely, as Canadians do. You marginalized our friendship by throwing out a boat with one life raft analogy. I mean, really, WTF, JMH. I deserve better than that precious email send-off.
But then, I was just among your audience. I knew it. I still hoped anyway. My bad.
I hope you writhe in pain as you mentally give me 2 seconds of your oh-so-busy time. I hope I never run into someone as deceptively shallow and self-centered, vain and despotic — hiding behind the plucky Rachel Berry ingenue character — as you. (We all know what happened to her portrayer. Oh, the walls.)
“I don’t want to be friends.”
Oh, and go fuck yourself. I also hope you accidentally ingest a slice of pumpkin bread with wheat in it.
On second thought, I don’t. I hope you’re doing fabulously with the love and career of your life, things you always wanted over real people and honest relationships.
Again. Fuck you, twin, and fuck your fucking birthday, Nov. 22.
My birthday’s Nov. 23, anyway.
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Originally published at https://carolbankswebercoggie.wordpress.com on November 18, 2020.