By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
Illustration by Bob AulHey, you, Tattooed Love Boy. You know who you are: OC player, industry jackass. I have loved you for years—something about your evil ways keeps me hooked. But now I know I have wasted so much time being true to you, staying home playing house while you were out getting your drink, drug and dick on. So many countless nights I wondered if you were true. Now I know you were out spending your dollars at the local strip joint. You seduced me into believing that I was your special honey, talking your rehearsed hogwash: "Baby, I love you! You're the only one for me!" Sometimes I believed you; sometimes I think you might really believe the shit you talk. What you don't realize is that I am a girl, and as hard as I try to accept you for the idiot that you are, you break my heart.
You think you are a fucking rock star, but you're only big in your own back yard! If only you knew what a quality chick was. You will be sorry when you are bald and fat and your pseudo-fame runs out. By then, I'll have moved on to a real man who doesn't measure his self-esteem by the number of chicks he plays.
So no more, Mr. Heartbreaker. This is one girl who sees you for what you really are: a soul-sucking, self-seeking egomaniac with an inferiority complex. I will survive and bid you a final goodbye. Because you're just no good.
Send 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 firstname.lastname@example.org.