That's it

Okay, out with it: I'm pissed at you. It's something I've been dealing with for a long time now, and I'm finally going to break it open and say that I'm pissed at you. I hate that things turned out this way. It's disgusting how quickly you changed from what I knew.

It was really, really great at first. You were interesting, vivid, fresh, new. A combination of spices I had never tried before. I marveled at your being. You were lively, and you nourished me. You shared yourself. You did me good.

But then there was a flatness, then a staleness, then a foulness. You got, let's admit it, boring. Day after day of the same old thing, and every day you became a little less than what you were. You broke down. Decayed. God help me, I tried to stop it. Tried so many things. At first I tried to be creative -- I came up with alternatives for you. I relentlessly put them into action. But they weren't good enough. Initially you went passively along with it, but after awhile you wouldn't have anything to do with my attempts to recreate you. You caved in on yourself, turned sour and scummy.

Nothing I did made it better. So I started ignoring you, started leaving you alone, hoping the problem would go away. I shuffled all my new successes and disasters (far many more successes than disasters) around you so they wouldn't touch you, wouldn't disturb your sullen repose.

And it bothered me. A lot. How dare you take up so much space when you weren't good for anything anymore? When you kept getting worse? I shoved my successes a little more sharply near you, to force a contrast. You didn't pay attention.

And I missed you. I wanted to go back to you. I'd think about what things were like, at first, and I would MISS the taste of your presence. And it's not like I've been up to doing better than you lately. I wanted you back. But then I'd think about actually facing you again, and I felt -- I felt exactly this -- revulsion and contempt. Granted, it was all in anticipation, but I KNEW things wouldn't be any better than the last time I looked at you. So I didn't bother.

Yes, you can credit me with a high degree of avoidance. I hate that kind of confrontation. And it makes me unspeakably angry -- disgusted, even -- that even now, I have to be the one to haul you up and dump out all the garbage and scrape you out and make you clean. It's unbelievably unfair. I worked tirelessly to hold you together. And even now, I have to be the one to get rid of you. I have to be the one to initiate the separation.

You don't communicate at all. You don't put up any red flags. Based on my past experience, I have to guess at how you're doing, check occasionally, knowing that it's all going to pot, despite my best efforts, my greatest skills (and I have considerable skills, as your very being attests).

So here it is. I'm bringing it up. I'm saying it. I'm making it happen. Are you ready? Get out.

Get out of my life. Don't darken the door anymore. I've crowded everything into spare corners to accomodate you, and you've gone to waste. Now you're not just wasting my time and energy (remember how much I put into you? remember?); you're wasting my space. And that's the last straw.

I mean it, leftovers. Get out of the fridge. You've become utterly contemptible. And you smell horrible.