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FIVE GAMES
I won't pretend like I don't still have feelings for you. It's been only two weeks since you left, and the wounds from your departure have barely started to heal. Sweetie, I'm pretty emotional these days. Sometimes I cry for no reason. Except that there is a reason. And we both know what it is. You cheated on me. But that's not why I wrote this letter. I know you like games, so I made a list of five games for you to try. Why don't you play them with your new boyfriend this Valentine's Day? You've been playing games with me for years.
GAME #1: Revenge of the Googlezilla
Try playing "Revenge of the Googlezilla." It looks like fun. No, forget it. I don't care about games. I care about you. How are you? I wonder if you're happy. If you're happy with yourself. You must be. You used to be happy while we were together. I bet you're even happier now. But how could you be happy with him? I can't imagine how he might satisfy you. Does he satisfy you? How could he?
Enough about him. Dwelling on the past can only cause pain in the present. I promised you a list of five games. Here's another game for you to try:
GAME #2: Chutes and Ladders and Your Feelings for Me
Sweetie, you might notice that the box doesn't actually say "Chutes and Ladders and Your Feelings for Me." Oh, wait! That's because you don't have any feelings for me, you insensitive broad! Oops, was that over the top? I'm sorry. I don't mean to get nasty. I'm overemotional today. But I'm not wrong, am I? AM I? You don't have feelings for me. Did you ever? Or were you just acting? Sweetie, I know you can act. Were you acting with us?
Don't answer that. I'm afraid to hear your response. And I'm afraid to live without you. After all we shared, I don't know how anymore. Do you realize we were engaged? Pledged to be married? Does this mean nothing to you? What we had was so precious. And you threw it away! I would have married you, until you traded our love for crap. How could you do this to me? I'm so pissed off.
GAME #3: Rock, Paper, Scissors, You Broke My Heart
I need to calm down. I'm sorry, sweetie. I'm just upset. I'm upset because I hoped we would be together forever. And I miss you. I miss your smile, your touch, your kiss, your voice. Sweetie, you have such a beautiful voice. I could listen to you sing forever. But now our song is over. You're dating a limo driver, and I'm alone. On Valentine's Day. It hurts, you know? Most of my buddies are out with their girlfriends. My brother is at the strip club. Me? I'm home alone, playing "Rock, Paper, Scissors" with myself in the mirror. Every damn game ends in a tie. I'm pathetic.
I'll be OK. It's just that I thought we had something special. Something special that would last. Not some Hollywood romance that erupts into life with a bang but fizzles out into death before Oscar season. I'll be OK. My heart is broken, but I'll survive. Don't worry about me. And you'll be fine too, I know it. You're a smart, talented, and ambitious girl. I know you'll go far, even farther than you've been already. You may never be my wife, but at least you'll be successful.
GAME #4: Narcissus
But how do you measure success, you tramp? By abandoning him who loved you most? By forsaking the man who never failed to be there for you? Sweetie, while you were busy with your career, I supported you. Even when I couldn't see you for months at a time, you STILL had my support. How could you take a dump on my face by going to bed with your chauffeur?
You're a successful woman! Here—take this vanity mirror! You can stare in it all day like the double-crossing narcissistic cheat you are! Or you can share it with this good-for-nothing limo driver of yours, and let him fawn over your good looks until your head explodes with pride!
I heard his name was Merle. Is that true? If it is, he's even sadder than I thought, because I'm sorry, sweetie, but that's a FREAKING WOMAN'S NAME. Merle is the name drunken mobsters gave their illegitimate daughters during Prohibition. Virtually every Merle in the United States was conceived at some speakeasy in New York City or Chicago. The name is as feminine as it is morally suspicious.
But that's beside the point. This guy is totally useless. If Merle were something other than a complete waste of bone and flesh, you would be chauffeuring him, not the other way around. Tell me, sweetie, do you feel upper class now? Or do you feel like you're dating a chauffer named Merle? BREAKING NEWS: Limo drivers are not important people! They're nothing if not a strain on society, a blemish on our cultural landscape and a perversion of human ecology. And have you heard about China's one-child policy? Chinese people don't have babies because they're afraid they might turn out like Merle, driving Donald Trump to the airport one minute and sleeping with my fiancée the next.
And how is the sex? Does this guy even care that you're a young, impressionable woman more than 30 years his junior? Has he no shame? I hope you remember that I wasn't this way. Sure, I had my problems, but I always respected you. Although you were very young when we first got together, I NEVER made you feel uncomfortable, and I NEVER pressured you into doing anything you didn't want to do.
GAME #5: Clue
I can't believe you did this to me. I LOVED YOU SO MUCH. How could you hurt me this way? I cared for you. I was good to you. I was your #1 fan. But you didn't care. After everything I did, you still tossed me out like garbage for some assmonkey with a Class B license. How can you live with yourself? How can you sleep at night? And how can you go to bed beside a man who isn't me—but who is a limousine driver named Merle—without vomiting last night's dinner all over that growing stack of Teen Vogue magazines on your bedroom floor?
So here's a game for you to play. It's called "Clue: Maybe You Should Get One." Better yet, why don't you give me a clue? Fill me in, sweetie. I must be missing something, because I was convinced we would end up together! I LOVED YOU HILARY DUFF, AND I WAS GOING TO MARRY YOU. HOW COULD YOU TREAT ME SO BADLY? HOW COULD YOU BE SO COLD?
There was a time when the thought of having ten little Hilarys and Murray Jameses running around excited you. We were going to start a Duff-Morrison family and raise child celebrities of our own. This was our dream! Don't you remember? And have you forgotten our plans to open a petting zoo? For goodness sakes, sweetie, Nickelodeon agreed to sponsor the damn thing!
You're a big girl now. You can make decisions for yourself. You cheated on me with some loser named Merle. Fine. You want to stay with this transgendered cabbie who's old enough to be your mother/father. Fine. Hilary, if this is the life you want, you can have it. Do whatever you want. Be famous with him. I guess we won't be making sweet music together after all.
But just let me say, for the record, that I put up with a lot of crap for you. Like the time we went to a Hollywood Screening of "Cheaper by the Dozen," and Ashton Kutcher was totally checking you out. So I asked him nicely, "Dude, what are you, a pervert? She only 15!" And he mouthed me off. So I kicked him in the solar plexus, but then Demi Moore came out of nowhere and beat the living snot from me. And as I lay on the ground in pain, she bent down and did some push-ups, not because she needed the exercise, but because she's a woman, and women can do that sort of thing.
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