This is my second New Year's Eve without you in my life you fucking cunt.

And for the second year in a row I don't have to worry about you cussing at the wrong time in front of the wrong people or laughing the loudest or using was instead of were or telling your embarrassing ghetto stories to anyone who will listen while I stand next to you. You make me cringe. Did I ever tell you that? I mean, did you ever stop to think that the holidays are NOT the time to tell everyone about your health problems and how rough you had it growing up?

Lots of good things going on over here in Benedictland. For example, this year I don't have to worry about getting totally obliterated at the New Year's Eve party just so I can fuck you later. And I don't have to worry about running around to find enough drugs to get me high enough to put aside the revulsion I feel every time I look at you. Every time I smell your breath that you won't go to a dentist and get taken care of.

My family told me not to get with you when we first met. My friend Jason made a face I will never forget when I first told him about you and me. I should've known. Your stupid trade school degree and sleeping in your car. What the fuck was I thinking?

You're going nowhere. The thing is you're too Jerry Springer to even know it. I thought, I don't know what I thought. Now we have all this debt together. I'll never be rid of you and it sucks. I never have to fuck you again, though. Or act like you're cool around way cooler girls.

I guess that makes me feel somewhat better.

So, my dear. Keep smoking your cigarettes in your redneck rental house. Wreck your shitty car over and over like you always do. Cry. Get people to feel sorry for you. And stick your twat around your sycophant, unemployed (like you), boyfriend's cock. I hope it's big and meaty and smells like lack of showers.

I hope you choke on it and die at midnight with a bunch of people watching.

I hope I hope I hope.