I've Got a Bad Case of Bulimia.

In all honesty, this feels amazing. I'm not done yet.

You know, I truly was over you. The cacophony of memories had slowly faded from their previous deafening stature, and I finally rid myself of the wilted flowers and tinfoil clad leftovers that remained from the wake mourning the last three years of my life. I firmly believe that "it's such a burden to carry 'round the vestiges of dead dreams."

And then I had a realization which seemingly lead to a state of delusion, wherein I convinced myself it was a good idea to send her a message and apologize for all the horrid things I'm sure you told her I had said. In reality, it was you that ruled with an iron fist over the information that we each received regarding each other, and therefore I had no right to judge her (though she was admittedly a bit daft in falling for what can only be referred to as your Thunderous Man Booty).

Upon the first phone call, the truth began to unravel faster than the cheap teddy bear you bought me for Christmas our first year together. Suffice to say, I truly and absolutely abhor your very existence. There is not a single fiber of my being left that could even potentially feel that you might be deserving of my love, let alone the love of anyone. For a while, I lived vicariously through daydreams of your car not-quite-spontaneously bursting into flames, and then realized that perhaps it's better if you live. I now find solace in the idea that perhaps you shall continue to manipulate people until, on some glorious day, we amass to form a big unruly mob, which stones you to death. Rest assured, I'll be there, and my stone shall drag you down to the depths of the Atlantic, much like I did, metaphorically speaking anyway, in real life.

Alas, a girl can dream.