I’ve got my uniform on. I’m just trying to stand up and go to bat.

Dear Sherlock:

I am writing you this letter to tell you why I am breaking up with you. Of course you will never see this letter, but I will read and reread it to remind myself why you and I are do not need to be together any longer.

To write a letter in the style of Papa of Velvet’s, I am going to make you the infamous numbered list. My dad makes numbered lists for two reasons. First, he is a lawyer. Just the facts ma’am. When you have a list with numbers, you know what the facts are, where they are, and you don’t have to read between the lines to get them. Second, he thinks most people are stupid. Therefore, the numbered list is a way of spelling things out in such a simplified manner that there is no room for misunderstanding. It’s a bit of a psychology trick. Dad is smart.

Let’s go. In no particular order.

1) When I was in N.Y. and we were quickly on the way to a “reconciliation” of sorts, you squeezed in one more date, but you lied to me. You told me you were “going out with friends.” You came clean afterward, but promised “no more lies.”

2) You neglected the mention of a “fuck buddy” until after I agreed to stop dating other people. Then after we got through that, you apologized and again promised “no more lies.”

3) Your crazy ex-other-fuck buddy, Rachel the ugly TravelGirl attacked me, publicly, on my blog, and you said you didn’t want to be in the middle. Only when I informed you that there was a “middle” because of you did you change your tune and start siding with me.

4) You came clean (only after threatened by In-need-of-rhinoplasty-TravelGirl) that you slept with not only the original fuckbuddy, but her (TravelGirl) and someone else in the two weeks we were not together. (But you were full-on stalking me.)

5) Before we had unprotected sex, you assured me that you always used condoms. You used the word “ALWAYS.” But then, after you and I did our testing, and tossed out the latex, only then do you tell me that you slept with Travel Whore sans condom. Not only does this disgust me for the sheer fact that she is ugly as shit, but, how could you do something so reckless with our lives?

6) You shared intimate details about me and the first time we had sex with, as Ashburnite has coined them, “the hags.”

6a) You also lied to the hags and told them I’m on meds. I’m not, but I probably should be now because of you. Thanks for that, asshole.

7) The night after we first slept together and I told you it was nothing more than sex, you somehow found it okay to show up at one of the hags doors, talk to her for two hours about me, then try to fuck her. I may be somewhat quick to jump in the sack, but I could never have so little regard for not one but two people as to jump in this quickly. It screams sleaze. Screams.

8) You have taken away my ability to write freely. The blog is now password protected and I have you and only you to thank for that. Yet…you still stop by to check the titles of the posts. What the hell?

9) You told your ex in Texas all the intimate details about us, our fights etc. Have you learned nothing?

10) Your sense of humor sucks ass. If I have to explain a Woody Allen movie to you, uh, yeah, it’s just not going to work.

11) You stalked me at Chi Cha Lounge, Cafe Citron and a Poison concert. I don’t appreciate this behavior at all. I’ve taken an ex to court for less shit than this. Don’t think I can’t find 500 Indiana Avenue again, bitch.

12) You read the blog entry about how my ex-boyfriend wrote me a whole note explaining how to get the flat tire changed, and you took it upon yourself to do the same thing with the remote control. If I wanted another AtlantaBoy, then I’d go back and get myself another AtlantaBoy.

13) You read my blog and changed like a chameleon into what you thought I wanted you to be. Only, you couldn’t sustain it for very long. I’m not sure who you are and who I’m dating, but what we have so far doesn’t feel anything close to genuine. And I’m comfortable moving on knowing that I don’t really know the real you. Because I suspect, that the real you is a needy, co-dependent, non-Woody-Allen-joke getting, non-Sarcasm-getting, sex addict.

14) You are not my type. You are too tightly wound. I’m the last of three children and I fall completely into that stereotype of the rebel and the family “black sheep.” I imagine myself dating some hipster guy who goes to London a bunch of times a year, or some guy with 27 tattoos, who just fell off a Harley – one that he’s been riding since birth, not one he bought because he didn’t want to be trumped by his girlfriend.

15) I still love Sammy and Thora more than you. If there were a fire and I could only save two of the three of you, I would save Sammy and Thora. That’s just how it is.

16) The other night after your 18 consecutive call marathon, when we finally spoke, you went into a stream of consciousness of things you were thinking. You said, and I’ll quote, “I still want all those things with you. I want to hold your hand when you have your baby…” Did you catch it? You said, “YOUR” baby. Not “our” but, “Your.” As if this was something I wanted that I forced you to go along with. Please note that before you, I never even considered having kids, ever. I like my life too much to have to sober and un-drug up for 9 months (or more!) to be a baby maker. “Your” baby. Remember that. It’s very telling.

I admit to having given you mixed signals, but it was only because I had hope that this could change and work out. It was also because I knew what an incredible douche you were, and that you are head over heels in love with me. Watching you squirm, gave a very sick sense of satisfaction, like poking a dying snake with a stick. But, I’m done.
No more kisses for you,