A new monologue, written in a fit of inspiration this morning.
A girl steps forward out of the shadows and speaks thus:
So here’s the thing. Not everything is about you. Because I haven’t even given you a second thought for 8 months. Why? Because it’s over. it’s been over. It’s was over before it was even over because you wouldn’t let it die. And now I am informing you that—well, I suppose if you don’t have anything nice, right? Because right now it’s all I can do to not call you and scream at you and tell you what I REALLY think, which isn’t something you really want to hear anyway, because trust me, I don’t get pissed often but I’m pissed now. I suppose I should have delineated territories and boundaries, but I also thought you were smart enough to figure that out yourself. Apparently, you aren’t. So listen to what I’m saying. I don’t care anymore. I don’t know if I ever really did. Maybe it was just new and fun or maybe it was pity or something in between, but I am so far beyond the realm of anywhere close to missing you that it makes me want to puke. So one more time, I’m going to tell you. Not everything is about you. Nothing I ever do will be about you. Your incredible vanity is matched only by your vast insignificance. And I am more than could bes and might have beens. So are you.