Hold on to your butt.

Dear Incurable Assache,

I’ve tried

By God, I have tried to be nice to you and your nasally whine you call a laugh. I wanted to be your friend. I really did. I thought we could get along famously.

I had forgotten, however, that having a lady-body means that literally anything I say or do can be construed as an invitation to touch it or ask it out or say shitty thing about its ex-boyfriends to it.

Let me be clear:

I wouldn’t let you touch my lady-body even if I were on fire and your pasty mayonnaise arms were made of firehoses.

It seems you’re butthurt about it. That’s cool. Sometimes I get butthurt about real problems- like assholes lying about me but I guess you could be upset that one girl in a sea of BILLIONS OF GIRLS didn’t want to touch your disappointing trouser-weasel but sure, okay. Do you.

But here’s where we have a problem: Your Alanis Morisette angst is causing me problems in my life and in my work.

Instead of healing the butthurt through creative journaling or poetry or underground fight clubs (with other entitled suburban marshmallows), you’ve decided to lie about me to the people that I love. You’ve placed yourself between myself and them for reasons I don’t entirely understand or appreciate. You’ve spent an abnormal amount of time now fucking up my personal relationships- and to what end? When did you become everyone’s keeper?

Are you hoping that creepiness is my secret kink? It’s not, and you will never know what it actually is. Are you hoping, when faced with no other options, that I will pick you and your collection of questionable sweaters? Do you think you’ll “teach me a lesson” and afterwards I’ll be practically moist with gratitude and enlightenment?

I’m deeply sorry I hurt your Gaston-level ego but this has gone too far. You’ve said untrue things about me to the people that I care about more than anything else. I have lost friends because of what you said- and I only know half of it.

So, my dearest turd-trumpet, I will say this as clearly as I can in the hopes that we can stop wasting each other’s time and you can go back hitting on women by calling them “Miss ____” and pretending you don’t want to wear my one guy friend that is everything you wish you were like a skin-suit.

I don’t want you. You don’t have Superman hair (as much as you’d like to tell me you do) and you have the jawline of Kenneth Parcell. Your behavior is gross and your demeanor towards me when I was dealing with a personal tragedy is so heinous and predatory that I will never fully trust you. Your voice makes me sick. You are a gossip and liar. You are the sentient chemical sludge from an off-brand toupee factory. You are Iago, and I don’t mean from Othello, I mean that parrot fuckboy from Aladdin.

Come for me again and I rip your still-beating heart out through your anus and eat it in front of your weeping mother, you incandescent shit-spinning ass spider.

I hope you step on legos.

I hope you lose your keys before having to be somewhere important.

I hope you try to surf and eat shit and get saltwater up your nose.

I wish you a life of terrifying mediocrity.

I wish you friends who treat you the way you treat them.

I hope one day you see yourself for who you really are, you human version of Vaginal Prolapse.

We’re done here.