I have no idea when I wrote this, but I found it therefore I’m sharing it. Not totally cheating my way to 50,000 words in November at all … 

Because I Can’t Write a Novel – Day 5

I miss you. There I said it. Will you please leave me alone now? Will you please fuck off? I admitted defeat. You win. I miss you. I still think about you. You still get inside my head. I don’t know why. I can’t seem to make it go away, to make YOU go away.

We won’t ever get back together. There, I said that too. I want to. I wanted to. More than anything I want / wanted to believe that you’re the guy I’m going / was going to spend the rest of my life with, but I know you’re not. You’re nuts. Too nuts for me. You play games that I don’t know the rules to. I don’t know how to make you love me, how to make you stay happy with me. I don’t know what I do that makes you angry or mad. I don’t understand the rules. I don’t understand what upsets you. I don’t know how to play the games. I can’t keep doing it. That’s why we won’t ever get back together. That’s why you should stop playing this damn game.

I think about you. I think about fucking you, about that time you fucked me in your kitchen (*Trauma trigger: rape) whether I wanted you to or not. I think about the way you used to play my body, and the way you used to get inside my head. I miss your dominant side. The side I couldn’t keep up with. Because it was the sex that kept me coming back, wasn’t it? Wasn’t that the hold you had? I can’t work it out, and trust me when I tell you I’ve been trying. I desperately need to know why I can’t get you out of my head, why you won’t go away, why you keep popping up, and fucking things up while you’re there too.

You’ll be happy to learn that you’re screwing with my new relationship. I’m assuming you knew I was in one when you started playing those Instagram games again? What’s up, Brown Eyes? Were you bored? No other girls wanted to play? Or are you seriously so deluded that you think you actually have a shot with me again? Because trust me when I tell you that you definitely do not. I want to fuck you again more than anything else on this earth, but to be in your presence and become sucked in by your whirlwind of hatred and chaos again? No thanks. I’d rather fuck myself for the rest of my life. I’ve gotten pretty good at that over the years anyway.

Seriously though, just fuck off. I don’t know why you feel the need to play these games. There’s no way on earth you can’t know about Bear – about that new guy I’m dating – so what the fuck are you doing? You must have seen it, him, us together? Are you deliberately trying to fuck us up? Because let me tell you something else for free – he’s a hundred times the man you will ever be. He’s a hundred times the fuck you’ll ever be too, because he doesn’t have all that nasty spitefulness attached to him. You automatically go down in the attractive-o-metre when you’re a raging cunt. Has anyone ever told you that before? Well, there, I said it. I’m full of fucking surprises today, aren’t I?

I fucking hate you for what you said to me, what you did to me, and all those things you made me feel. And that hatred will keep me going, giving me strength against all the bullshit ‘I love you’ posts you want to throw my way. I re-read those vile emails you sent, and I even read them out loud too. Each time I do, my lip curls up with disdain, and I’m reminded of exactly how much I can’t stand the thought of you. I did love you, and there might be a part of me that still has very strong feelings for you, but the feelings of disdain and disgust that I have for you? Those outweigh any reconciliation thoughts. You are quite literally “my crazy ex”. You always will be.

I just don’t understand why you keep trying to win me around again. I think it’s been made increasingly apparent that I’m NOT the girl you’re looking for. YOU made that perfectly clear. You said those words, you sent those emails, you made me feel the way I did. What happened was YOUR fault. You don’t have the right to come back around now and tell me you miss me. So stop it. Just stop it. Stop putting those posts up and then deleting them, because someone sees them, and someone lets me know about them, and that’s just cuntish. Fuck off. Get over it. I have. Or at least I’m trying to.

Just fuck off. I miss you, but I don’t want to.

• Expected word count: 8,335
• Word count today: 879
• Word count to date: 6,718 (This word count business is harder than you’d think … even with the ‘cheating’!)