You can't come running to me anymore, expecting to hear the things you want to hear. You can't use me to comfort you and sugar-coat the reality. That's not my job anymore. I did that for 4 years. For 4 years, I told you everything you wanted to hear. No matter how bad things got, you knew that I was always there to make you feel better. But those days are long gone and you can't rely on me anymore.
I'm going to be honest with you. I'm going to be completely truthful, which is how I would want my friends to be towards me. If you ask me a question, I'm going to give you my answer, and sometimes it's not going to be the answer you want to hear.
You look ridiculous. And it is demeaning. Degrading. I don't care what you say. Dressing up like that, showing off almost every inch of your fake breasts and wearing more make-up than a mime-artist is just not attractive. It's not my job to tell you you look beautiful anymore, because you don't. You look like any other Medway girl. You crave the attention, you want people to tell you how hot you are. But you're not getting any of that from me. Flowery dresses over hot pants and boob tubes anyday. Have some bloody respect for yourself.
The truth is, you are the most miserable person in the world. Lighten up, stop biting my head off and enjoy yourself. Stop torturing your body and eat a flipping burger.
I hate seeing what you have become. You used to be so happy, so enthusiastic, so energetic. Now I just see a gaunt reminder that people change. You changed so much.
I wanted to tell you today that I'm going to Boston in September. I wanted to tell you I was going to see Ella. I'm not sure there's ever going to be a good time to tell you. You're never in a good mood, and if I say something you don't like, you storm off in a strop. You don't know this, but I don't think about you anymore. I pray you're healthy and happy (which, quite frankly, you're not) and I miss your family, but I don't think about you. As far as girls go, I only ever think about Ella. Shoot me for putting her on a pedestal, but please, find me a girl in Britain who can match her intelligence, beauty and personality. I've yet to find one. You need to realise that you are no longer numero uno, and I won't come running anymore.
I can't be dealing with your mood swings, your hissy-fits and your constant bickering. I don't love you anymore. I haven't for a long time. You need to realise this. I hate the person you have become. I hate everything you stand for. I hate your hair, I hate your fake boobs, I hate your stupid earrings and I hate the fact you always try to one-up me. The reality is, I'm thriving, whereas you're merely surviving.
I hate the person you have become.
Luke
