Murdermurder Ragerage.

Dude, you are my ex-boyfriend.

We dated.

We held hands.

We kissed-- sort of.

We broke up.

And, you know what?

You're a really terrible person.

There. I said it. I've been bottling it up for years, but there it is, in black and white.

You're a terrible person that will never have a good life, because you'll never grow up and get up off your lazy ass long enough to make one for yourself.

In the past, you'd tell me all the time that you expect to die in your twenties.

Well, you know what? You won't.

You're going to live a long, miserable life.

And it'll be your own damn fault.

Do not judge me based on my relationship with Alex.

You haven't met Alex.

You haven't seen me in years, spoken to me in months.

You have yet to grow up from the same immature, a little funny but mostly stupid, teenager that I once dated.

You have no right to contact me in any way.

You know, I still get scared to look out of windows sometimes?
I still expect you to be standing there, cuts all down your arms and neck and face, telling me that you hadn't cut deeper because hadn't wanted to "hurt" me.

Fucking selfish pig.

I am more than angry.

I am livid, I am furious, I am filled with rage.

One more fucking sarcastic remark from you about my dating life, or about me at all, and I will explode. I will explode, and I will not stop exploding until I make you cry.

Maybe that sounds a little extreme.

But I am sick to death of you and your casual attempts at interfering in my life.

Fuck you.

Fuck your self-imposed "depression."

Fuck your pity-party-of-one life.

Grow up and get real problems, dude.