Hello, Real Life, how are you?

You know, I had this all typed up.
It was elegant and it was angry and quite beautiful, if my opinion counts.

But forget that, because layer upon layer all leads up to the same thing:
I am better than that, and I am better than you.
And focusing on lifestyle or hypocrisy or all the things I do hate and have always hated about you - whether as a boyfriend, friend, or even going back to the unbelievable days when we were just acquaintances - don't really matter anymore.

I have no desire to speak to you and haven't in weeks (though I am sorry to demean your apparent blocking and unblocking and reblocking of me? I can pretend it hurts, if you'd like), unless telling you exactly what I think counts and I've always been a little too soft and empathetic to do things like that, but I also have no need for you to know how I feel about the fact that I've been dragged along for weeks with small changes, or had horrendously spelled blog entries written about me (yes, I did see.)
It just doesn't matter.

And that is more wonderful than anything I could ever hope to write.