Illustration by Bob AulWhen we met, I thought you were the very embodiment of Woman: sexy, smart, funny, sophisticated, playful and the most sensual person I had ever met. Never have I been so completely wrong. It's not so much the loving things you say—"This just feels right," or, my favorite, "You're my perfect man"—it's more your actions, like coming over and fucking my roommate and his girl. Or how about flaking on me constantly due to one of your alcohol-induced personal crises. I suppose it wouldn't hurt so much, except that YOU were the one who contacted ME about making those plans to begin with! Talk about being set up like a bowling pin only to be knocked down again. Remember telling me about "gardening," whereby you manipulate men to get what you want, the man ultimately thinking it was his idea? I can only assume that pissing me off to this extent was all part of your plan. And how about the drinking? It really seems to be doing wonders for your already sudden mood swings. Keep it up! I hear they're doing wonderful things with liver transplants these days. Perhaps you could get a two-for-one deal, and they could replace your callused black heart at the same time.

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 letters@ocweekly.com

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