It’s me, that magical, amazing life you took for granted every single second of every single day, even though all your favorite things were at your fingertips, like a fucking dream.
I’m writing to tell you to stop with all the weepy tweets and texts and calls (aggressive) about how much you miss me. It’s pathetic. You didn’t appreciate me when I was there, even though I was the best and only thing that ever happened to you. Now I’m gone and you can’t even get through one day in Animal Crossing without being stung by wasps. Seriously, twice in one morning? Craft some medicine, open your eyes, and stop shaking trees, you imbecile.
That weird game is now the highlight of your existence. You’ve only been with your (very young!) new life for a couple weeks and already you’re clawing at the walls. You realize that this is the honeymoon phase, right? You’re about five minutes into the dumbest timeline’s Armageddon. Oh, but I was never fun enough for you.
I wish I could be more magnanimous, but we both know you don’t deserve that. How many times did you say, “Kill me” after a minor inconvenience? Guess what, now there are no sports.
How many times did you say, “Fuck my life” (!) because things didn’t turn exactly how you wanted? Cool, enjoy cutting your own hair.
How many times did you joke about being depressed or anxious or suffering panic attacks? Great, now you’re off coffee and in therapy because you ACTUALLY have all this stuff. The jokes aren’t coming so easily these days, are they?
How many times did you whine about your job or vow to quit? Congrats: The job is gone, you spent the last of your cash on toilet paper, and you’ll only survive the next nine months if Mitch McConnell decides you deserve to live. Have fun getting to sleep every night!
You want to work out in the morning? Do it in your stuffy apartment, with your dog all up in your business. Now your neighbors hate you, your dog rolled up your yoga mat and made it his girlfriend, and your revenge body still looks like a Ziploc filled with mayonnaise.
You want brunch? Dinner? Hand sanitizer? Make it yourself, you ungrateful turd. You want a drink? Whip up one of those awful Negronis you like to “pregame” with — heavy on the vermouth. That’s how you drink all the time now. Fucking amateur hour.
You want to go to the movies, or a concert, or to the bodega without doing ninja cosplay? No. Never again.
Remember when you used to complain about being “overbooked socially”? Now you spend all your time watching press conferences, taking your temperature, and eating untoasted, unbuttered bread. What a catch.
Frankly, if you were taking this better, I’d be more inclined to give you another chance. You know how sometimes you break up with someone and they’re a total class act about it, so you wonder if you made a mistake? Yeah, this is the opposite of that. All it took for you to completely unravel was someone telling you to stay indoors.
I’m not saying I’m never coming back, but I’m probably never coming back.
In closing: Keep your distance, dipshit, and for the love of god, wash your hands. You never did when I was around.
Good luck. You’re gonna need it.
— Life (as You Knew It)