Dear Jonathan, Pt. I

     I hope you know why I’m here tonight.  If you come to find out, then you will know what I know, and I should hope that you would want to come screaming back to me, screaming out of the pure embarrassment of having been found out.  And you probably will figure out that I was here, as I had to make just a little tear in the screen door off of the kitchen.  Your front door was really locked up good and tight.  You wouldn’t have changed the locks, right?  And to think I would have married you if you’d asked.  You will find your ring in the trash can of the first floor washroom.  Your high school ring.  What was that, like some kind of promise or something?  I found it sitting on your dresser all ready for me; why didn’t you just give it to me yourself, instead of waiting for me to find it like I’m some kind of kid on an Easter morning?

I was tempted to throw it in the toilet and watch it swirl away, but you know me, I could not bear the thought of it clogging up the toilet and you having to call the plumber and telling him that your crazy ex-girlfriend tried to flush it in a fit of childish temper tantrum.  And there, I guess I said it.  I guess this makes things official.  I am officially your ex.

            Not that this is the first time I think you two have been together.  Oh, no.  I’m not that stupid.  About the only thing I don’t know is what she looks like.  And it’s not like I want to know, because that kind of thing just about drives me nutty.  Dear Jonathan, it’s not about the looks.  You can’t tell me it’s about the looks.  If it is, she better be pretty freaking hot.  Is it the sex?  Is that what it is, Jonathan?  Because if that’s it, I think you do need to see someone else.  Like a shrink. 

            I don’t even know what I’m doing here, in your condo, watching your television set, feeding your cat and looking around to see if there is anything I should take with me. You know, kind of as a repayment for what you’ve done to us.  And look at that, Jonathan, you idiot, I’m not even saying me, look what you’ve done to me. 

Because I don’t care, Jonathan. 

I’m not the type of woman who is going to sit around and sulk and think about killing myself because of you.  You should feel pretty lucky right now.  If you never see me again, you should feel pretty lucky.  And I’ll tell you why.