"With fucking love:" A Note Almost Sent

I thought there was an understanding: Be fucking honest with each other.

OK. So you are not "my man." Or "my boyfriend." Some how we let the last eight months develop into us telling each other that you're "my baby" and "my love." We never committed to each other.

I don't owe an explanation as to why I went out on a date with the older gentleman last month (you can't be surprised honey.), so why the fuck should you tell me why you have been stalking/calling/texting a 25-year-old?

What, you think you could hustle two of us? I mean, I did give you my heart. You probably chose not to except it and I chose to ignore the rejection a while ago.

But we kept talking every night. ... and every weekend.

We kissed. We danced around the bed without being in the bed.

We shared. And we fucking cared.

I don't think I led you to believe that I was ready to settle down with someone and have a baby. So why the fuck did you tell her that? Oh. You thought that I didn't know? I do. Yeah, I even know what you are telling her. But I know my worth. And I know the prize. Who fuck is the hustler now?

Listen. When you are ready to taste, feel and be REAL with a woman. Call me.

With fucking love,

YOUR "love"

date almost sent: february 19th, 2009