Dear Regretful Douchebag,
People fuck up all the time. I fucked up last week when I cracked the screen on my iPhone 6 and drunk dialed my mom begging her to send me a new one immediately. My bestie fucked up when she drunk eat pizza for the third night in a row – I’m getting her a Weight Watchers membership for Christmas because that shit has to stop.
Fucking up is a part of life, but the way you fucked up is something that not even Apple Tech or Jenny Craig can fix. You can regret it all you want, but TBH I’m never going to be interested again because you have no clue what you fucking want in life and that’s some amateur shit my packed schedule of hot yoga and blacking out doesn’t seem to have room for.
Your pathetic attempts at first asking me to get drinks with you (via Snapchat – are we in high school? LMK) are sadder than Kim’s try at “breaking” the Internet. You know the holidays are around the corner and since you can’t bring your most recent whore to your mom’s Christmas dinner, you’re trying to see if I would be willing to sit through one more painful meal where your dad tries to pretend you had athletic abilities as a child. Getting a trophy for little league participation is not a noteworthy feat, asshole.
If I was a some doormat named Carrie who took Big back ten million times then you could keep trying at your little scheme to get back in, but clearly betches are above identifying with SATC characters so it’s not in the fucking cards.
I’m all for learning from your mistakes (I do it every Sunday morning when I try to learn how to limit my tequila intake), but you can learn from this one miles away from my toned ass. Maybe when you wake up next to a fat chick who prefers Dunkin over Starbucks you will finally learn lightning never strikes in the same place twice. Who even knows what that shit means, but basically you won’t get this lucky again.
Don’t try re-adding me on Snapchat – I won’t accept. Don’t try sending me letters- I will throw them out. Don’t try playing me on Trivia Crack – I will deny your request (even though I’d probably beat your nonexistent “intelligence” in two rounds). And absolutely don’t show up at my house begging for forgiveness- I will get a restraining order. This isn’t the fucking Notebook. You blew it and I really DGAF.
Take your regrets to someone who cares – maybe your frat brothers will still be down for a Natty Light and some tears.
Never call me again