It seems that you always show up now when you are concerned or have had a lil tiff with the lovely lady you dumped me for. You need solace, you need to be held, you need strokes. You need to be told you aren't an asshole. You need unconditional love. How convenient that I'm always around, hmm? Have you noticed (through your constant whining and concern for yourself) that I don't tend to add anything to the conversation? Can you guess why this is, babe? That's right, its because I don't give a shit.
Oh, no doubt I was once concerned for your well-being, and I sincerely wanted to help but you have pretty much drained me of all compassion. The only time I ever see your face is to hear you whine about her. Honestly, you just aren't all that bright, are you? Granted, I've said that hearing you discuss her doesn't bother me. It really doesn't. As I stated before, I couldn't give a shit. What bothers me is the slow realization (obviously much TOO slow) that you are not even close to the person I once thought you were.
You screwed me up so royally that I was all set to blame your little "visits" on myself. You used to warn me about your nature and I used to disbelieve you. Well guess what, its NOT my fault you are an asshole. Its not up to me to steer around you like you were a fucking leper. You have problems, get some FUCKING HELP. Don't describe all the ways you fuck people over and then sigh and blame it on yer genes. That's an enormous cop-out and license to be a jack-ass. Guess what? You don't have carte blanche to treat people like shit. Learn to be a good person or don't be surprised if people leave you en masse and yer written up in a pissed-off blog entry.
You, my old love, are a word-class jerk. You are a user, deary, and I'm well-rid of you. I just wish you'd leave me the hell alone. How's that for "personal honesty"? Merry fucking Xmas, Mr. Scrooge.