Leave Me Alone

Leave Me Alone

Thursday, 11.01.2007. 1358 hours.

I checked my email yesterday for the first time this year.

And I received a most unpleasant shock.

You sent me an email.

You wish me Happy New Year and 'hopes I'm 'no longer still mad' at you'. HOHOHO... Watch me turn up my lips in a grotesque mockery of a smile.

What is it you want from me?

What is it you want me to say?

All this time. And suddenly you think of me and send me an email. Really now. What is it that you want?

You want control over me, don't you? Even then, you wanted control.

You want my body. You want me to adore you. You want me to go all panegyrical about you.

You want me to be your pretty little trophy girlfriend. Always smiling, always gorgeous, always dolled-up when we are out together. For a certain time frame, at least. What was it you said? Be my girlfriend for 2004/ 2005?

Well, you must be going psychotic. Your thoughts and emotions must be so impaired that contact is lost with external reality. Wake up! You aren't getting it.

Not my being your girlfriend (trophy or what not, time frame or no). Not my body, either. I'd rather sleep with snakes. Snakes are even more warm-blooded than you are. And I most certainly won't adore you. I didn't then, I won't now. Wax lyrical about you? Not even at your funeral. I'd keep a silence so magnanimous, all would know what the paralipsis means.

I'm a stubborn bitch. You should know that by now. You think a few phone calls and one email would make me change my mind? Think again.

You wanted a blow so badly, didn't you? That's it, isn't it? That's what you want?

Honey, why don't you surgically remove your three lower ribs, so you can bend over anytime you want, and suck your own cock? You, being the extremely well-connected man that you are, would surely have the contacts to be able to get it done. And oh! I allow you to send me those rib-bones once you are done with surgery. I'd dry them and keep them as souvenirs: I knew this dastardly jackass once.

Why email me now, anyway? What is it you're hoping to achieve? And why can't you just bloody leave me alone?

My not wanting to pick up your calls should have been indication enough. My parting remarks should have told you, beyond a shadow of a doubt, precisely how I felt about you. And your shenanigans.

It's not like you lack any females who'd spread their legs for you and fuck you silly. So why me?

I'm the one that got away? I'm staying away.

Bloody leave me alone, why wontcha?

I'm not replying your mail. I don't plan to.

Go stick a red hot iron poker up where it never sees the sun. And learn how to contemplate pain. Maybe then you'll learn how to be human. And how to fucking get a life and leave girls fresh out of school alone.

THIS FEMALE here, this is the ONE SHREW you CANNOT and SHALL NOT TAME.

I won't allow you to. You'd suffer grievous and irrevocable injuries to your penis and your testicles first. I'd make Mrs. Bobbit look like a contented, domesticated kitten when I am Very. Very. Angry.

Men like you shouldn't be allowed to breed anyway. Try your shit on me one more time and I'd really make you suffer.

Who died and made you Petruchio? Taming of the Shrew indeed. Let's see who tames who.

Why should I spread my legs for you when you don't even know how to love me like a MAN.

You sadden me. You disappoint me. You disgust me. You're my mistake I'm ashamed to admit I made. But I will. The world would cut me no slack, and therefore I will cut myself none.