I don’t want to be dumped nicely. I would like, if it’s not too much of an irritating inconvenience, the harsh reality served cold, please. I could not stand the politeness and the gruesomeness that follows one’s pathetic attempt to keep it all politically correct. How does this obscure ambiguity can be of any help to me? It is hard enough being dumped to begin with, please spare this redundant misery; provide some feedback, help me. Tell me I don’t look as half as good as your mental image of prince charming which emerged in your mind since you were five. Tell me my sense of humor makes you want to die, and it does, it stabs the knife in your flesh every time I tell a joke, and it twisting this knife every time I laugh at my own jokes. Tell me you wish I would’ve died myself, because than you can stay alive, but for certain, one of us can’t stay. That I bore you with my unintellectual insights of a Neanderthal; that you’re too filled up with this that one more second with me and you will explode. And all of your pieces will cover my face and stain my suit, and you will hate the fact you’re all over me, that we have to be so close again. But instead you just wear a weary smile, and tell me it’s you who is fucked up.
