Do you get my phone messages and refuse to return the calls? Do my emails really bounce back? It’s hard to believe you haven’t heard from me, when all I’ve been doing is reaching out to talk, and all you’ve been doing is not responding. I guess that means you’re not really doing much at all, you pulseless, heartless self absorbed slug. Yes, you, I called you a slug, because you slither through life taking what you need from people and throwing the rest away. Slimeball. That’s what you are, green, gooey, booger, the long kind that keeps coming out of your nose, even when you think you’ve picked all that remains. Still, I give you the benefit of the doubt. Maybe you’ve been on vacation this past year. On some far away island without email, without phones, without TV and even without transportation. So while you somehow got dropped in the middle of nowhere, you now can’t find you’re way back. Because if you did, if you came home, you would most definitely write if not call.
You want to be friends but not really. If you did, we’d be friends, no excuses, no having to create a heap of lies to make up for the thirty seconds it takes to say hello. A recent fortune cookie told me to reach out and make contact with you, an old friend. So I did and still nothing. Who really believes those stupid sweetened bits of lemon-zested delight anyway?
I never did anything to make you hate me. I know this. You know this. We, collectively therefore know this. Still you don’t know me at all anymore, and that makes me sad, because you, you of all people, used to know me so well.
I’m not talking about you, if you think I’m talking about you, so don’t get this big head and that sinking feeling in your chest, but I may be talking about you. Yes you. You’re the one I’m talking about. Not him or her, but you. Who you are isn’t really of great importance anymore, because while you don’t know me, I don’t know you either. There. We’re even. But still, the sickest part of all this is that I’d welcome you back, because I liked having you in my life, like a really cute pug that won’t stop shitting on the floor, I just can’t seem to take you out with the trash. Not that you should ever throw a dog away, but I hope you get my point.
In fact, I don’t really think you’re a slimeball, at all, although I like the idea of describing you as a slug. You kind of are, wouldn’t you agree sweetie? Wouldn’t you say that even though it’s been more than a few months since we’ve actually reached out and grabbed each other, that you could still be the apple of my eye. Or maybe it’s a poison apple. Like Snow White and her evil queen, maybe the sweet apple you once were has rotted to the core.
And maybe I’m just confused. Confused about how I should and shouldn’t feel. I don’t know anymore. I only know one thing…we haven’t talked in while. Don’t you miss me too?