The Wheels of the Bus…

Being thrown under the bus by someone because they would rather save their own bacon and not be accountable for any of the retarded decisions they have made… demonstrates a serious lack of integrity. And doing it in a way that prevents me from defending my own name… wow.. that’s something else. Though… I would rather be the sociopath, narcissist who is a bad influence – than the idiot who believed whole heartedly in the apparent facade of trust and loyalty. Betrayal. You only get to do that once.

So while you sit in your therapy sessions and cry victim, and leave out the part where you only ever told me about the fucked up shit you did after the fact – well, that is your prerogative. But let me tell you…   because I know you will read this …   if I get one more mail or text or call from your irate mother, I will burn you. I will expose you for the compulsive liar that you evidently are.

You are your own worst enemy, and I am no longer holding your hand. I am no longer at the other end of the phone. I am no longer the voice of kindness or of reason. I also no longer CARE. That is a switch you turned off all on your own. Enjoy fumbling around on your own. You will come out bruised and scabbed because you refused to tell the truth at the pivotal moment when armies would have rallied to help you. But instead you threw the one person who believed in you under the bus… and you deserve an Oscar – because even I am fucking impressed at your performance.

But reign in your followers who have fallen for your charismatic lies. You forget that I know you better than they do, and I have cataloged your secrets. The ones you hid so well. The ones I unearthed in the safety of friendship. I have no problem printing them out and handing them out… if your delusional support team comes anywhere near the notion that I am someone to tackle.

You know better. And if you don’t – then you grossly underestimate the damage I could do with out leaving my desk chair. So be a good girl… and either tell the truth for once, or make sure that my name is no longer a topic for conversation.

There is no sentimentality left in me for your wounded heart. That spilled out of me the moment I realised that your hands pushed me and my name through in the path of the bus, so that you could stay stuck in your own hell.