Illustration by Bob AulSend anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations —changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to "Hey, You!" c/oOC Weekly, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627-0247, or e-mail us at email@example.com.
So, you moved out here with the hope of finding a job and possibly rekindling our romance. I promised you that you would have my friendship, that job opportunities would be plentiful, and that I would honestly give the you/me thing a real chance. But I found you painfully uninteresting. For the most part, you sit your unemployed ass in front of my TV. You lie there shirtless, squeezing the flab around your midsection (I call you "Teletubby" around my friends) and rarely even lifting your head to acknowledge me when I come home from work. Your conversations consist mainly of what's on TV and petty remarks berating almost everyone, with never a good word for or about anyone—least of all me, even though I've gone out of my way to help you. I forwarded your résumé and talked you up to people who I knew might be interested in hiring you. One day, I sacrificed a couple of hours of work to introduce you to friends who might have offered you a dream job, letting you write your own ticket. Not only did you not thank me, but also when taking me back to work, you couldn't even pull up to the door. You pulled over to the side of the street at the end of the block and made me walk the rest of the way. You're totally bland, but to say you have no personality is doing you a favor: who you are sucks. You're a mean-spirited, inconsiderate pud. I can't say it really surprises me that you're leaving me without warning because that's how you are. Small. Spineless. Dickless. Goodbye.