Dear Asshole:

It was with no regret whatsoever that I received your message yesterday instructing me never to contact you again. Unfortunately the brief flash of courage you finally showed in telling me off was negated by your cowardice in breaking it off via voicemail. Perhaps a series of visits to a qualified chiropractor will enable you to grow a spine. I might also suggest a consultation or two with a colorectal surgeon, since it would seem that the doctor who repaired your hemorrhoids those many years ago somehow neglected to notice that your head was lodged firmly in your ass. This cranial displacement no doubt explains a great deal about your inability to maintain a long-term relationship with anyone but your right hand.

It is with even less regret that I find myself free of such inconveniences as endless lectures on the finer points of this or that operating system, your inability to tell me you loved me unless you were drunk, and your annoying habit of belching and groaning in my ear during every phone conversation. Your homely face I could have forgiven, if you had been able to compensate for it by maintaining an erection longer than 30 seconds. I might also have tolerated your careless appearance, aging body, and creaking bones if you'd had enough personality to make up for what you lacked in physical beauty. Even manners would have helped; pity you didn't have any. How fortunate that your general assholiness eventually led to a considerable lack of desire or interest on my part as well. These days I wouldn't touch your penis if I'd been poisoned and the antidote was in your sperm.

I will not miss your inability to take responsibility for yourself and your actions. Nor will I miss your habit of blaming others for your mistakes and misdeeds, your requirement that your lovers know exactly what you want without your having to tell them, or the angry tirades you launch into when you don't get your way. I will not miss being drunk dialed out of the blue after weeks of silence. I will not miss listening to you get stoned in order to avoid talking about anything serious. I will not miss being insulted or used as a verbal punching bag. I will not miss playing f*ckable mommy to a 48-year-old man throwing a temper tantrum.

I understand that the odds are slim to none that you might change your mind and try to speak to me again someday, but in the highly unlikely event that you might someday entertain the idea, kindly don't bother. My self-esteem isn't low enough to put up with you anymore. I have better men to do.

Go f*ck yourself, since you're the only one who will.

Sincerely, Gwen