Remember This, Asshole

Yeah, sure, I might be a geek with braces and a loud sense of style. Sure, I have weird fangirl moments and I crazily obsess over books and boybands. I admit that I might be partially insane and talk too loud. I may be a bit blunt, but at least I'm genuine and real. I don't cut for attention and I actually have real eyelashes and eyebrows. My nails are chipped and unpainted, but they're not doused in toxins and alcohol 24/7. And yeah, I'm not popular.

But listen here, Mister, and listen well—I was your best friend, your only friend long before all these try hard wannabes even knew you existed. You think you're all "high and mighty" because of this new group you hang out with but in fact, practically everyone outside your little friend circle hates you. I mean, you guys aren't even the "real" popular kids.

You walk around the school like you own the whole damn building, and I know you've resorted to cheating during cross country. You ignore me in front of your new "friends" and you act as if you don't have a care in the world.

But let me ask you this—who let you stain their shirt with tears when that hoe dumped you? Who put together a playlist of 83 songs for you when you got sick of your own music? Who held your hand when you got scared on that roller coaster? Who did you confess all your secrets and sorrows and regrets to? That's right. Me.

And now you've become a total asshat, and you rarely even bother to say 'hi'. You act as if I've done nothing for you, and you brush me off like one of those blonde bimbos you were so into at one point. Heck, I'm the one who pulled you out of that phase!

I was here since day one, and for three years I put up with the whirling shit-storm known as you.

So please, remind me again, what did I ever do to get tossed to the curb like an empty Twizzler bag you finished at the movies? You used to be so sweet and kind and caring.

You've mutated into some stuck up douche bag who only cares about his dumb hair and thinks he runs the freaking world. And now that I think about it, without me, you'd still be the nerdy science kid in the back of the room nobody wanted anything to do with. I don't know what happened to you, but I want you to mark my words: when this womanizing f-boy reputation you ditched me for sends you crashing and burning to the ground, don't expect me to come salvage the pieces.

So when you're life breaks down into sharp tiny fragments and you pick up the phone to call me, remember this—I won't answer.