Dear NewJersey,

When I shake the proverbial Magic 8 Ball, it says “Outlook not so good.”

Thursday evening I sent you a simple text message saying “I was thinking about you today.” Here we are at Sunday and guess what? Nothing. No response. It’s as annoying as stepping in my own dog’s shit as I’m trying to pick it up, that’s for sure.

So tonight, Sunday, I called you. Your phone rang five times, then you picked up, I heard you rustling for a bit, and say to someone else, “Let me turn the ringer down on this” and then you hung up. I called you back, because you didn’t realize that you stupidly picked up the phone BEFORE I was sent to voicemail. The second time you picked up and hung up. Nice. I called again because what the fuck, why can’t you just send me to god damned voicemail so I can leave a message? This time, finally, voicemail picked up after three rings. Did you get my message? Oh, well, let me reiterate it for you.

“Hi, it’s Velvet. Ok, you’re not returning text messages, now I get hung up on. Can you call me and tell me what’s going on? I’d appreciate it. Talk to you soon.”

I thought we were way beyond this. You seemed to be stepping up the pace to the next level. I guess I was wrong. You are 35 years old. Have the fucking balls to get on the phone and tell me what’s up. Tell me if you don’t want to see me again. Tell me if you have a girlfriend, or good lord, a wife. Just say it. Have the fucking balls and say it.

I thought you were different. I thought you were one of the ones who could blow me away. But I was dead wrong. You have proven yourself to become just like every other guy. And psst…I threw those fucking roses in the trash even though they were alive and thriving.

Pissed off,

P.S. No “I told you so” necessary.