[By the way, thank you for driving yet another knife into my back. Thank you for talking shit about me behind my back (and to my boyfriend, no less, which isn’t a very good idea because [a] he doesn’t tolerate that shit as much as I don’t tolerate you telling me how much you don’t like him behind his back and [b] we tell each other about those things in order to avoid hypocritical bitches like you) even though I still thought about you and cared about you enough to check up on you when I was worried about your well-being.
Part of me doesn’t know why I’m disappointed, honestly, because it’s not the first time you’ve fucked up when it’s come to our friendship.
It’s not the first time you’ve flat-out disgusted me.
It’s not the first time you’ve angered me.
It’s not the first time you didn’t tell me the truth (Sound familiar? No?) straight up to my face when you had the fucking chance.
It’s not the first time you’ve been secretive with me because you’re too much of a little coward to say anything to me about what you really think.
The other part of me thinks, Well, I thought she’d changed, and, for a while, I believed you had, because you said it and showed it. That must not run for long in your family, though, because you’ve been off and on since we met with being a little emo bitch or a sweet angel feigning innocence (when, in all reality, you were just seeking redemption, like the fucking rest of us, except most of the people I know don’t fuck around with people’s emotions and heads like you’ve always done).

No more.
I’m done.
If you want to talk, you start the conversation, and you better be prepared for some of my (in)famous bluntness, because if you ask me about this, you’re getting the answer straight-up. (That also must not sound familiar to you.)

Here’s a little tip, also: If you’re going to talk shit about me, my boyfriend is probably not the best person to sling the mud to, because he does tell me what you say and he does hate it, probably more than I do, and you can probably already guess (I would hope) that he hates you now, too.

Have fun prancing around happy as fuck, you stupid whore.]












Yes.
I am very glad I got that off my chest.
Do I give a fuck if you hate it?
No. Quite frankly, I don’t, and those of you bitching behind my back about my bitching can suck my figurative dick, because you won’t have to worry about it on here anymore.
Seriously. I’m done.
Ta.