I genuinely hope that he is happy.
I hope that he found her, the girl who pretends wrestle mania is real with him and who doesn’t complain that he hogs the microphone and sings all night (but she can sing too she just isn’t interested in upstaging him) and I hope that she likes fucking, every five or ten minutes in very porn style positions and that she never nags him, or corrects him when he couldn’t be more dead wrong.
And I hope that the other is as blissful as well.
I hope that he never gets any sexually transmitted diseases at all and that he doesn’t get hooked on anything stronger than medical grade marijuana although I already know that its too late for that last bit but I hope he’s happy, with more lovers (that he can only give a small piece of his heart to) than he can stand, for as long as he likes.
And of course I hope that you’re happy too, that you’ve carved out a nice place for yourself and your paranoid perfect pretty princess with the problems (no more wickedly diagnosed than mine) but I know why you chose her, she’s not me and I hope, I genuinely hope that she is exactly what it took to make you happy.
I hope that they all are happy. Even you.
I won’t reintroduce myself to find out, I’d rather assume that its so, that now that they no longer have me to deal with that they have happiness.
That you have happiness.
Without me.

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