You are just another character in my meandering tale of selfishness and self indulgence. Nobody will care about what happens to you at the end of the story. All they are interested in is the sensationalism of the fuck and the quick decay of emotional stability splayed messy across your used to be tepid day to day. But, no, now I have littered your waking moments with my caustic refusal to conform to your idea of what’s supposed to happen after we’ve started fucking, and instead of indulging your emotional whims, and returning your phone calls, and meeting your mother, I’ve shattered you, and your delusions, and there you are, a little bit less together than when I find you. And you are no longer my problem. You are discarded, a forgotten character like a blip on the radar of my sexual excursions, and hopefully some other woman will find you and put you back together.
I, on the other hand, have a story to tell, and you are no longer a part of it.