I thought about writing a poem about her today. She likes poetry, always has and always will. I figured if I wrote some exuberant, triumphant poem, she would magically become enamored with me. The fact is, I can’t do shit about her feelings. One day she’ll realize what she passed up on. Me. I don’t know my future, but I sure as hell know hers. All I’m saying is, I’m better than the best she’ll ever find, no cockiness intended. It’s truth. The magnitude of her bad decisions now will bite her in the ass ten years down the line. So, miss, when you search for love in all the wrong places, remember the place where love was ubiquitous. My arms are closed. Your window is up and this… well this is my official documentation that I will never deal with a girl like her ever again. I will never deal with her ever again. Life goes on, so go.
