Dear World: Fuck you and your sense of timing

You were right if you sensed coldness and a little bit of anger in response to the text message you sent me tonight. Some of it is from having an exam tomorrow, being tired from work tonight, etc. But most of it is, in fact, what it seems.

Fuck you. You haven't spoken to me since the middle of my Winter Break, after you knew for a fact I was angry at you. But you didn't care. And I understand that. You've never really given a fuck about anything, have you?

You texted me at 2:30. I'll bet you were drunk. This isn't you swallowing your pride and making amends; this is you pretending that nothing happened and assuming that I will do the same. And I say screw that. I know exactly what you're doing. You're bored, and you want to toy with me some more.

I am not a man, and I'm not your little bitch. So when you call me tomorrow, you had better fucking prove me wrong about you. I am not letting you do this to me anymore.

Gah. I was so sure I'd never talk to you again, too. I'm still not sure how I feel about it either way. Except for the deep sense of anger that is going to keep me awake tonight.