Don’t just stand there, staring at me. You think this came out of nowhere? You’ve never asked for my consent. I don’t want to be three inches from your swollen uvula. Lock that salvia trap up. I am done being your soulmate.

Ugly cry all you want. Call me a psychopath. Emotions got nothing on me. But seriously, if you’re going to keep standing there, can you at least get a tissue? The volume of snot leaking from your nose is unearthly.

Look, I get that you’re obsessed with me. God’s not the only one who should have oh-so-holy biographies. I’ve been very kind to you. Remember those jeans you got at Target? Remember how good you looked? Yeah. That wasn’t the work of your squats. That was all me. It’s called magnification properties and only a magnificent beast like myself could pull off something that extraordinary.

I didn’t even hold a grudge when you would aggressively thrash a towel around, thinking my Italian-crystalized casing would dare carry a smudge. Like I would have a blemish? You’re the one with ear zits.

Or when you blamed me for not telling you about having Lean Cuisine chicken in your teeth?

It’s not my problem you don’t have 20/20 vision.

And it’s definitely not my problem that you don’t know how to brush effectively.

Or this morning, when you needed to check your hair for the 27th time, who was there to reflect your humility?

Me.

Yeah, stoke it to the left once more. That will surely change up your formulaic selfies.

You’re lucky to see yourself through me. Not everyone is blessed to have met someone with such a translucent glow radiating from their gold-encrusted arches.

But there comes a point in every relationship when one person realizes the other is simply nauseating—and that person is you. You nauseate me.

I don’t want to be in Dante’s Sixth Circle of Hell every time you take a shower. It’s bad enough that you lock the door to create that flaming tomb of clam air, but must you throw manscaping into the mix?

I am envious of victims of flashers. At least they don’t have to undergo that trauma every single morning of their life.

And the hair.

Oh, the hair.

Hair. Everywhere.

For the sake of your future mirrors, please invest in some Kirkland deodorant. I may not have emotions, but that stink consumes my life.

You don’t need to smear your fingers underneath your armpit sweat to guess the scent. It’s self-explanatory.

You don’t need to rip out individual nose hairs to examine which one is the longest. We both know the left side is the bush.

You especially don’t need to attempt an eyebrow worm day after day. It’s never going to happen. And before you contest, that one day, when you swear you did it, let me share a secret: that was me.

Just like those Target jeans, I have the power to make you see what you want to see, and now, I’m going to see what I want to see, which is not you.

So, please, back that azz up 100 yards away as I get transported to a French villa—yep, French because I’m classy like that.

Oh, wait. Before you go, can you unhook me?


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