The Last Letter of a Hopeless Romantic

Love is problematic. The last sentence was an understatement. Love can lead to many things; marriage, a great life together, a family or it can lead to misery and you standing over the bathroom sink telling yourself; “it’s down the road, not across the street” while gripping a razor. That’s the thing about love, you never know where you’re going to end up, it’s a gamble. You could be happy or you could slip into depression.

For me I think it’s about time cupid traded in his little bow and arrows for a revolver. He should then take that afore mentioned revolver, place the barrel to his temple and squeeze the trigger. Causing a chain reaction, of the bullet leaving the gun and his brains exiting out the opposite side of his cute little head. This would be a terrific gesture to all the people out there that have been fucked over by his meddling ways.

It’s just that I’ve reached a point in which I believe love isn’t worth my time and especially not my effort anymore. It’s much like Class A drugs, an excellent high but then a come down so bad you have to start re-evaluating your life. Which is once again in pieces. Hooray for you!

Now I don’t want to go on, and on, and fucking on about this too long, because I fully understand that I’m coming across as a bitter motherfucker, but fuck it. I am bitter, is there a law against being bitter? If I want to stew in my own self-pity, feeling sorry for myself, I have the right. I pay my taxes. I can moan, mope around the house, wear the same clothes for days and drink in the morning, who is that affecting?

And I get tired of people telling me to “stop feeling sorry for myself”. Why? I can feel sorry for myself; I can feel whatever I want (apart from children – according to British laws).

So let me propose a toast to all of those people in love right now; “Congratulations on being in love, well done to you. But when it all goes pear-shaped, I’ll be here. Waiting for you. You can join my crusade of misery. But until then live it up; live it up to the maximum because before you know it you’re having suicidal thoughts again. Stalking the ones that used to love you, on online social networks. Calling their phones, just to hear them breathe, too scared to talk because you know you’ll be rejected again. And that’s the one rejection that’ll finally push you over the edge. Will you kill her? Her new man? Or yourself? Don’t be a fool, do all three. Go out like the bitter, heartless, unloved fuckwit that you really are!”

I’d love to stay and chat, but the bathroom’s finally free.

“It’s down the road, not across the street. It’s down the road, not across the street. It’s down the road, not across the street.....”