(It’s mostly just in the head)
That day when you told me that I wasn’t enough; that you wanted something more; something fancier, slimmer, taller, glittering…I didn't get a chance to rant. It was too much to take.
That day when you said that I looked a little dumb for my age, that I didn’t think like an adult, that I cared about stupid things; things only a mad man would care for, I didn’t get a chance to defend my intellect. I feared that I would upset you.
When you said that it was because I got it from my friends; fat, hopeless losers who weren’t aware that the only thing that awaited them was misery and more fatness, I didn’t even defend them. I chose you. I loved you too much. My friends thought you were dumb, but I didn’t tell you that. I didn’t tell you how much I hated it when you farted silently, and it smelt like dead mice.
I didn’t tell you how your music wasn't music to my ears, neither did I tell you that I hated your fucking suits. And your not having a single beard. Dude, that’s a sin!
You spent half of your time in church, and spent all the rest being unchrist-like. Fishing hearts with the bait in your perfect smile then breaking them all without ceremony. Many girls giggled to their friends that you had "looked" at them. Even Jesus wouldn’t like that. I heard them on the corridors, and I often wondered where that left me. But I didn’t stop holding on. That was a stupid move, I admit.
I always thought you were the one; and you were, for eleven months. Then you weren’t. What happened? Oh, I know. Nice. Damn, that girl, Nice. Your classmate. The one you were always studying together. Lies. Unless you were studying “Honey Management”. You said she wasn’t your type but then I was like, she’s a girl, and she’s breathing...
I didn’t like her eyes. Has she cheated on you yet, I wonder. ‘Cause her eyes, they always seem to wander.
But hey, how are you holding up? Have you climbed down from the douchebag scale? I see you’re wearing more hoodies, keeping a cool Afro, posting more pictures…and did you just buy another pair of shoes? That’s good, man! I really hope it’s not a girl; not that I’m jealous or anything. Well, maybe a little, but that’s not what’s important here.
I mean, you should be nothing but yourself, and I know that because I have been with seven brothers and each time, I forgot myself. Now, I have found me, and I am the best I can ever be. Am I, really? Oh well, that’s the bullshit single girls tell themselves. But I almost mean it, seriously.
Do you think, after your daily jerk-ass activities, one of these days we could meet up for a cup of coffee? So that we can talk about things face to face; to let go of all resentment, you know, that thing, closure?
Okay, mostly just so that you can see how much weight I have lost, how thick my hair has become, and what a badass I have become. Damn! You must also know that I can pay for an expensive coffee now. You know that job of mine you always criticized? That’s how I’m going to pay for your coffee, you stinking sack of shit. But I still wear my t-shirts. That, nobody can take from me.
We could even talk about our nocturnal escapades to the park, walking in the rain and catching a cold together, you feeding me lies and me devouring them. You really are horrible, I would never wish you upon anybody. Wait, when you said I was the first girl you had ever done any of that shit with, that was you feeding me lies, right? And when you pulled that punchline from “The Notebook”; well played, bro. Well played. Damn, I almost still believe it. “Without you, I’m lost”, you often said. Where, in women’s skirts?
But you know the best thing about everything? I don’t want any of it back. I’m no longer diverting conversations with Sabrina about global warming or socialism to “Michael”. I’m no longer seeing your face everywhere. I am sleeping like a baby, and I could kiss myself for that.
If you must know, I’m doing really well. I found me, I meant it. I know that, like you would say “sounds lame”, but really, I’m happy. You wanna know why? Okay, okay, if you insist. So, I won this photography award. It might not be much, but it is enough to show you that you were wrong about my job, about me, and that you can go fuck yourself. But does it really matter? You didn’t care about my job.
Actually, I’ll be going to Jo’burg this evening. Now you care. If I meet a fine, smart, un-you guy on the flight, even better. I heard you released your first single the other day. I also hope that you’re single.
I would ask you to send it to me, but I deleted your number from my phone and from my memory. Just kiddin’; I don’t give a shit, is all I’m saying. By the way, did you finally grow a beard? It’s November.
Anyway, Michael, I forgive you (not), and I’ll be here (not) if you ever need anything. You said we’d been “just friends”. Well, buddy, that’s what friends are for.
Oh, and fuck you, Mike!