So I hear that you love me, and want to be with me, and apparently have a thick understanding of what I need in a man. But what is this shit about you not being in a place where you have X to offer me? You know what I have to say about that? MAN-the-FUCK-up. Yeah, I mean it. Mold yourself, grow, evolve. Get. It. Done.

You are the only person in control of your life. You are the only one who can expand your value proposition. YOU. YOU. YOU alone.

Because you know what I think when you say, I’m sorry, I wish I could be different, but I can’t. I hear, Jodi, you are not worth the work I will have to put in in order to deserve you. I hear, I just don’t love you that much. And ummm… sorry about that. And I’m like, you’re a tool. And no, you may not keep saying you love me or apologizing and think that IT WILL MAKE ONE BIT OF DIFFERENCE. I mean, really? What am I supposed to say in return? Give you a prescriptive number of Hail-Mary’s and send you on your cleansed way?

The man that you are today is YOUR MAKING. You made him. He IS YOU. So who do you think is in charge of making adjustments? What? MIT? Architecture? Money? Fame? RISE THE FUCKING hell-hole up! Or if you won’t (and don’t you dare say “can’t”), I never want to hear you tell me you love me ever again. Not in email, not in gifts, not in phone calls or in maybe-someday-when-I-can-treat-you-better we will be together jargon. No. Never. Again. PERIOD.

Breathe…. Breathe…

I just wish it didn’t have to be this way. And I can’t do anything about it. This one’s on you, M. And you’ve messed with my heart by saying how much you love me… reminding me that I should know that and pleading that I believe you and accept that you are doing the best you can. When your best means that we have been broken up for five months. And I am moving on.

And no matter how much I try, or how far I’ve moved from you, I still imagine your face in my wedding album. I still imagine OUR children with your baby-blue eyes and my blond curls. With your sense of beauty and my organization skills. I still imagine that we will grow old together. Sit on our back porch and scoff at the neighbor’s choice of petunia placement.

I hate that you still occupy my mental space. I hate that I still dream about you. I hate that somehow I still think you are mine. Or will be. Or could be. I hate that even though my list of reasons why we aren’t together is longer and thicker than I ever thought possible, my fucking tha-thump-tha-thump heart still shivers at your photograph. Still believes that someday you will come for me and make it all better…

But you don’t and won’t because that would mean you would have to CHANGE. And I guess I just ain’t worth it, am I? Or you just aren’t capable, are you? And that means that we shall forever stay apart. And that it’s over.