I thought I'd at least get a decent rant out of this.
It comes and goes, of course. Sometimes the rage is white-hot enough that I can't even see through it. There were flashes of that this weekend, when you had the balls to bring that whore to a public event where you KNEW I would be, where so many of our friends would be, and let her fawn all over you like a weasel in heat. Getting to stand in a crowded hall and explain to people who've known me for so many years that, no, you really HAD decided the village slut was more important to you than your wife was a special treat.
I thought I'd have enough hate and rage to shit out when I got around to this one that you'd feel the splatter all the way across the internet on whatever sleazy pickup site you're using these days to cheat on her. (Is she stupid enough to think you won't? Really? Now that she's seen how easily you DO? Of course, she probably doesn't care, given that the whole time she was actively pursuing you and you two were running around behind my back, she was trying to sleep with anything with a pulse, whether they wanted her or not.)
I don't, though. I've got nothing. There's nothing left to get rid of.
All I want, now, is the rest of my stuff, and for the paperwork to be finished. I'd say I want my freedom, but that's not yours to give. I've claimed that for myself.
I don't need to rant, I don't need to rage. I don't need to cry, or to lash out, even if I want to, sometimes.
I don't need you.
Or kill me.