The trophies plundered amid our copulation were already tarnished, but they weren’t trifling until today’s naiveté exposure. You are a pathetic tragedy; no, you don’t deserve to bask in the esteem of that word. A real tragedy shares library space with the finest – you hardly deserve a bookshelf, or a cardboard box in the basement, or the volume you’d occupy chained to a rock at the bottom of the ocean (those poor fish). To me, a tragedy requires a dilemma, a decision, a flawed protagonist; it requires something, anything, to summon my emotion and justify the time I’m investing; it requires, at the very least, a morsel for my curiosity. You are only capable of arousing a fleeting feeling within me, and even then it’s less than pity. In fact, the regret that overwhelms me for extending a droplet of dejection on your behalf far surpasses the pity itself. Such a waste; we danced wonderfully, our kisses were passionate, we drunk fucked hard in my kitchen, drowsy sex’d at dawn, and ate a beautiful breakfast. All the while I waited for your twist. “This can’t be it, can it?” my mind repeatedly pleaded as I hoped hour-by-hour that you’d have more to offer. If even one remarkable thought had left your lips I might have forgiven your mundaneness, and it was disappointing to eventually accept that you are Nothing. Now, after I’ve made it abundantly clear that wandering anywhere with you is less appealing than wandering the forum bowels of the internet, the smelly bowels of the sewers, or the rotting bowels of a corpse, now you’ve returned with such a repugnant question: “What could I have done differently?”
Madam Nothing, we’re ex-lover landlubbers trapped ashore. Please, follow me down one of the many mountainous roads in this man’s mind…