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 le*****@oc******.com.
