Got Ghosted, So I Wrote You a Fuck You Letter
Really Go Fuck Yourself?
I know you said you couldn’t commit to anything more, and I’m so chill… I’m so like, I don’t care, I’m really busy anyway; I have friends and a career and stuff to do, with a big fat fake smile on my face. You didn’t do anything wrong, not really. Not if, walking into someone’s life and being so goddamn good looking and kissing like you’re gunning for an Olympic gold medal and fit as fuck in a natural way, was a crime. If it was, you’d be guilty of all sins. God…imagine if you even stepped inside a gym? You’d grace the cover of every magazine. I got ghosted, so really, go fuck yourself.
Don’t worry about me. In fact, weeks have passed since I got ghosted and even though I sent you a couple of teaser messages; trying to find that song you played, watched the movie you talked about, hung out in places you told me you’d visited, your responses are always so polite. If Whatsapp could have ‘There, there, now’ emoji’s; with a pat on the head, that would be your emoji to me.
Ghosting someone is just another tool in the narcissist’s emotional abuse arsenal.
Got Ghosted, Might Delete Later
But you’re so nice; you’re so smart, you’re so charismatic and so down to Earth and honest. You’d think people like you wouldn’t even end up with people like me, yet you told me (sober), that you really liked me. You even hinted that we may see each other again.
As if that was ever going to happen. Is that what people say when they leave a bed these days? Is that the ‘I’ll call you’ line?
5 weeks, 3 days, 11 hours and 22 minutes have passed since you ghosted me, but who’s counting? I don’t care, I really don’t. It’s not important. I’ve carried on with the mundane existence I seem to have built for myself. Sure, many consider me successful; I should be happy to have my house and my car and the company that I run, I really should be grateful for those things. But they’re just things. Things I thought were important until you entered my bed and we made love like I’d once imagined it would be like. I can’t even remember coming up for a breath of air, can you?
Sometimes you think it’s love, but it’s just a borderline personality in desperate need of a gym membership and some accountability for their sex addiction.
You Still Look Hot
Oh hey, I just saw you across the street. I was about to run over, but then I realised you weren’t alone, you were standing with someone and the way they looked at you. It must have been how I looked at you as you kissed me, while caressing me tenderly. I stopped myself and didn’t come to say hi. I even thought, maybe even just for a flicker in time, that you saw me and turned the other way. Even as I then continued walking along the path, no longer as excited to get that new pair of shoes I’d just seen online. No longer thinking I might go and have a coffee at that place you’d told me about.
I can’t be angry at you. You did nothing wrong. Not if being irresistible and graceful are modern day crimes. Maybe on social media they are.
Anyway, I’m not going to blame you, because I thought that our moment would carry on into ever-fucking-lasting fuck-full of memories. That’s on me. Not sure if it even counts as got ghosted when there were no promises. But it sure as hell felt like it.
But anyway, really, go fuck yourself. Right after you go fuck the prettier person beside you.
What I Didn’t Know Then
Back in 2019, I thought this was just a bitter little ghosting story wrapped in sarcasm and self-deprecating rage. But if I’m honest, this guy was just the rehearsal. He was the sexy little trailer before the full-length psychodrama dropped years later. Turns out, getting ghosted by someone with charm was just prep work for getting annihilated by someone with personality disorders and a camera in their suitcase. But that’s another memoir. Actually, let me share that memoir with you now. It’s called Good Luck Getting Rid of Me. Hold onto your hats. You might ghost me when you read it.