We went out once. We didn’t click.
And yet you persist in leaving me five voicemails a day (no, contrary to the pathological excuses you’ve been inventing to justify your looneytunes zeal, my voicemail is functioning quite well; unfortunately, just too fucking well) and cluttering my inbox with all manner of deranged JPEG attachments of coffeehouses we “might be able to meet in.”
In case it isn’t salient by now, I wish you well, but I have no interest in meeting you, much less exchanging a single word with you, ever again.
Most ordinary humans take the hint and move on with their lives. Despite polite and carefully worded language from me thanking you but suggesting that we weren’t exactly the Bob and Betty Wills of our day, you insist in your indefatigable efforts. What part of “Do not call me again” did you not parse? I mean, I think that’s a pretty lucid message, don’t you think?
One would think that at the age of 35, such basic laws of human interaction would be familiar to you by now. And yet you persist.
Since you seem equally intent upon tracking my every online move and responding with some commentary about “what a genius I am” (newsflash: I’m not), I’m hoping that in posting this message, some reasonable element within your being will finally wake up and stop calling me. Failing that, there’s a movie you might want to see that illustrates precisely what has gone wrong (since this has been a common theme in your nutbar voicemail solilioquys). That movie is Play Misty for Me. To be absolutely certain you understand what’s going on here, I’m the Clint Eastwood character. Got it?
Very truly yours,