An Open Letter to My Ex-Girlfriend

"I FUCKING HATE YOU." This was the text message I wanted to send you yesterday, which was three days after you told me you're sleeping with the guy you're seeing. I sent the message to Ryan first. He called me immediately to ask why I sent it so I told him I was going to send it to you. He attempted to dissuade me but I was at work (when am I not?) and hung up quickly. He must have told Emily because she called minutes later. She told me I need to "be the bigger man" (whatever the fuck that means) and this message would just serve as ammunition for your marriage committee girlfriends to murder me with. I don't give a fuck what the committee says about me and I am not trying to get you back. We want such different things in life that we are incompatible, we know this. I didn't send the message because it is not true. I do not hate you. I love you. I will always love you. You are my baby. You were my pure, sweet, precious love for so long.

But goddamn this news has caused me the most goddamn grief in my whole goddamn life. I'm so fucking upset I could kill you. How could you do this? I suppose it is obvious to you, you moved out on me four months ago. You told me you were going to date other men. You broke up with me, but I don't think I really believed it. I told people I was single, and cognitively considered myself single, but I subconsciously acted like we were just taking a break. I still called you often to talk and share things. I invited you to dinner and social functions. You agreed sometimes and we would kiss and do things couples do. It was so nice to be together again. One time Emily asked me, "If Annie were willing to leave this town to wherever your career might take you, would you want her back?" I said yes without hesitation. Anne-Marie is my girl; she'll always be my girl. But not now. Not after this. You fucked another dude, you bitch. We are over and I am both deeply saddened and lividly enraged. Our love was so strong for so long. We had such a good thing. I really only realized how good recently when I was in Europe, but we were so solid. When we held each other in bed, nobody nor no thing mattered in the outside world. We were happy and safe and this must be zen.

I know you very well and you don't like to dwell on these kinds of things. You know me just as well and I can't help but dwell on shit like this. It makes me feel alive to be so sad and pissed off! I embrace it. I want you to tell me your new man has a bigger dick than me and gets it up faster and fucks harder and lasts longer. I catch myself wondering if there was ever a situation where he just fucked you and he is walking to the bathroom with a wet condom on his dick and he sees your phone ringing with my name on the screen. Does he smile and laugh at me? Or have you ever denied my call while he's in the bathroom and you're preparing yourself for sex? Or has your phone ever rang out loud the entire duration until it goes to voicemail while he fucked you? I've been thinking these kinds of things all week.

To be honest, I actually think much more about the great times we shared. I went through the photo album last night. For whatever reason, there are a disproportionate number of photos of us on beaches in Southern California. There is the one in San Diego where I'm on my knees and burying my face in your lap and you're body looks fleshy and meaty and nice. This makes me think of the night in Huntington Beach when I first told you I love you. And there's the picture of you alone with the dozen roses I bought for you the first time I ever bought you flowers. You're sitting on your couch in the Meadows with an ear-to-ear grin and short shorts that make you legs look so lovely. And the pic when I caught you offguard with that face: "Colin, we have to go, why aren't you ready?" There's another from a party with my family and you're hands are on your hips facing Tammy who's holding Jake and looking for who knows what. In another, you caught me surprised while I'm on Sanchez' computer. Half a dozen pics from the San Diego Zoo for your students. Venice Beach, etc, etc. There are even a few from the Mardi Gras the year you made me cry.

Speaking of crying, I haven't cried yet even though I am overwhelmed with grief. I often get the knot in my throat and feel like tears will explode while I'm talking to a coworker or greeting a table. But then I'll get alone and want to get it out of my system and I won't be able to. I'm too goddamn cool. Years of supressing tears to be a man made me incapable until that Mardi Gras 2004 when I was telling you how much of a bitch you were being and you started crying uncontrollably and I started crying because I loved you so much. My first cry since ... the early nineties? I don't know, but I haven't cried since then, yet I assure you I am more sad now than ever in my life. Muy triste, guey. Even one of the cooks spotted it on my face like a black eye or a giant pimple. "No estes triste, guey. Hay muchas mujeres, todas para ti!" This is the advice everybody gives me and I'm sure they're right. I just can't forget that you are fucking another man!

On the night that I consider your breaking point (the same night you swung on my chin in bed), you said "Colin, you are losing the best thing in your entire life. You will never have someone like me again." You are probably right. I doubt I will ever know a woman with your caring heart. You're so sweet and beautiful. I love you so much. And you cried so many tears those last months before you finally left me. It is a difference between men and women but as men we don't really realize what we have until it's gone. What went around has come around. I am just now going through what you went through for a long time. I am so sorry. But it is over. You are banging that punk motherfucker! Do not bring him anywhere on Delmar until I move away from this city. This is my street. I am here every day and it is likely I will run into you two together. If I do I will probably make trouble. Shit, I could use the work.

Moving on, you're obviously over me. I must have been a terrible burden. You'll never have to suffer my indepth analyses of whatever's going on in my life. You will find a man who doesn't drink at his college frat house all day while you're preparing the home for your family's Thanksgiving dinner. You won't have to listen to me ridicule network television programs or the shit you read or the music you listen to. You are so happy to be rid of me yet I don't think anything about you was so unbearable. I didn't like going to bed so early with no music or any light to read by, but I was happy. It was so nice. At the Coachman. At the Forest Park Hotel.

The text message I started this letter with is not true. We built our relationship on sharing and being honest with each other even when it's not easy. This letter is honestly how I feel, and this is my last time sharing. I am signing out. I'll never adore you again. It would be nice to never see you again.