He’ll never read this. I know he never will, and even if he did, he wouldn’t know that it’s for him. It’s all for him. As I sit here on my bedroom floor in my pajamas and my eyes full of tears. And he’ll never know how much I love him, because I’ll never tell him. Because even if I told him, what then? Me, with my face full of tears, and him, like he always is, sitting so far away with nothing to say. We are miles away from each other as we sit here at this table together, but if he would only bridge that gap with his hand on my hand – but, no. He will always be too far away, and I will always be sitting here, hoping, and waiting, and wanting. And suffering the plight of woman, with her love letters to nobody.
He’s been calling her a slut for quite some time now, and the last time I looked they had broken up six months ago. Although, it’s not that he’s calling her a slut, it’s that he’s going over her tags with the word “slut.” So what’s most interesting to me is the fact that someone who is on the outer edges of my social circle is blatantly publicizing the fact that he is *not* over his exgirlfriend, who apparently is dating someone new, but the exact minutiae of her sex life are not privy to me, therefore the veracity of the accusation that she is a slut is unknown to me. However, it seems apparent that she isn’t exactly spreading it all over town. She has just, as most women do, moved on to something better. Which is why I’m confused as to why I know so much about the fact that the exboyfriend thinks she’s a slut. When, what everybody knows is that he’s the one who’s been spreading it all over town. I’m not sure if this guy is projecting just a wee bit, and in all honesty I barely know her, but I have to respect a woman that lets a man make such a wild ass out of himself in a public way. Because I don’t see her losing in this situation. In fact, isn’t it a victory? He obviously isn’t over her, and if there’s any testament to the power of feminine wile it’s controlling your man so much so that even after it’s over, months and months after it’s over, he’s still pissing around town, wailing about his broken heart, because, girlfriend, you control that man. He is in your pocket, and you have won because there you go with your boyfriend and your smiling Instagram pictures. And everyone else out here is saying, “Oh, shit!” as he puts himself and his own butt hurt broken heart on blast. And, just so you know, no one thinks you’re a slut. People respect you because you’re not losing at a game that men invented, and that is probably the most threatening thing to a man. Ever.
“She treated me the way that I treat girls,” he said, sobbing slightly into his cup of whiskey. It had been revealed a few days earlier that she had, in fact, been fucking around, although the exact details of her fuckery are not completely known to me at this point in time. Although, maybe I don’t need to know, and all I need to know is that she treated him the way that he treats girls. Which is like shit, and maybe there’s something noble about not being a complete fucking door mat to a notoriously scummy hipster guy who spends his time skulking around bars and trying to get a piece on the side just for the fuck of having a piece on the side. It’s hard for me to sit here next to him and feel any sort of pity for somebody who feels sad that his boo was messing around, mostly because it’s 2014, and also because it’s Oakland, and any guy who feels some sort of sadness because he couldn’t control his girl because girls in Oakland in 2014 can’t be controlled by men. We’re beasts, really, rabid and wild, not the kind of creatures that can be controlled or expected to kowtow to the simpering will of weak men. So, do I give a fuck that his boo was “cheating” on him? No, absolutely not. In fact, even though this guy is my friend, and I don’t even really know her very well, part of me is plotting to hit her up on Facebook as soon as I get home so that I can give her a digital pat on the back because, well, isn’t this what we’re doing now? Playing their game back on them? And women slut shaming other women is a primary enemy of my version of trillwave feminism, so instead of sitting here and sneering and letting myself think, “Oh, how could she!” Instead, I’m sitting here thinking that she’s a boss, and look at her, look at well she controlled her man. Because here he is, crying into his whiskey while she canoodles across town with some other boy who is probably equally infatuated with her and her wily way of snaking men. She is a man trap, and I absolutely adore any woman who is the master of her own sexual destiny. You know me, girl, and I know you, so let’s link up and juice dudes next weekend because I have nothing better to do tonight.