Survival of the Twits

I don’t think I care. Nope, can’t say as if I do. For nearly eight years I have been dealing with you and now I think, no – I know I am done. Done. Done. There have been some others I have ceremoniously said goodbye to, but none quite like this. I’ve done the sliding away, glad you haven’t called route. I’ve done the I’ll Make You Mad Enough To Leave Me routine. Been there, done that. This is different. This is me forcing you out and being really glad about it. It’s Survivor meets Lost. Get off the island and stay off. Trust me, you won’t be missed. Or looked for, much less found. This is me, giving you your walking papers.

I can’t stand mimics. Those people who try to flatter you by trying to be you. It’s just not cool. I believe in residual relationships – giving and taking. Adopting, if you will. I don’t care for copycats. Find your own voice. Your own hobby. Your own island. Let me go my own way. Without you.

Here’s the thing. I liked you. I grew fond of what you could be, until you showed me who you really are. Not who you want to be, but who really lives under your skin (and makes mine crawl). Sound the alarm. Scream bloody murder. Cry wolf. Do whatever you need to do – whatever will help you move on from me. I want you to jump ship or else someone will make you walk the plank. That someone might be me.



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