A One-Way Conversation With My Ex's Facebook

Hey, stud. 

It's been a few months since we've talked; the last time being on your birthday when I sent you that special birthday text that said "Hope you're dead. See you in hell."

But that wasn't really talking. That was more like me texting bitchy things from a safe distance. Talking would require an exchange. You were absent. Or better yet — dead.

I just wanted to drop by and tell you some good news. Turns out, I can creep your Facebook and not feel anything for you. I can see that you've been around the world, and that you've gotten your teeth fixed, and that you look happy. And I feel nothing for you. Truly. You look good. Your new boyfriend looks normal. He's got a super cute hunchback. Apparently, ringing those bells is doing wonders for his traps.

It's been a while since I could look at you and not see all those guys from London and San Francisco and Dallas taking turns on you in an imaginary bathhouse. A hellish host of the men you slept with before, during, and after me just hammering you into submission while the smaller guys watched from darker corners, waiting their turns. It's all I could see when I looked at you after we broke up — an orgy of not me.

But that's in the past. 

Now, I scan your Facebook likes and see that you're a fan of Jason Mraz and Modern Family and you almost seem, well, vanilla. Gone are your days as the horny frat boy who posts shirtless pictures of himself with captions like, "Dinosaur go RAWR ;-}." Today, your most recent pictures show you cuddled between a curtain of nicely processed gays in sensible, work appropriate polos. You look...elevated. I picture you at home with the Hunchback; him nestled on the couch and you peering through the kitchen's serving hatch into the living room. You're chopping something (probably celery because you're trying to take care of those new bitchtits), and you both chuckle at how hysterical Cam and Mitchell are. "Uh-oh! Those two have NO IDEA how to boogie board, do they?!"

Your status updates are still riddled with misspellings and grammatical errors. You never could form a sentence in person or on the page. It was endearing at first, but after months of this, I wanted to hit you with my car. I thought you were stupider than Dina Lohan. But right now, at this juncture, it doesn't bother me at all. That's who you are. Less educated homos might even think it's cute. But sweetie, please stop using conversate for fuck's sake.

The point is, I'm proud of both of us.

I won't say that I'm happy for you, but I will say that your perceived success doesn't annoy me. Scratch that. I am happy for you. If I were to run into you on the street, I'd hug you and I'd mean it. And I'm confident that I wouldn't hit you in the face. 

Because I've matured.

I can't promise that I wouldn't get semi, though.

Good talk, champ.