At your repeated insistence, I have finally listened to the song that you wrote for me, entitled “Do You Love Me? (Now That I Can Dance)” Musically, I find this little toe-tapper to be pleasant enough. However, as the direct addressee of it’s quite peculiar lyrics, I feel the need to respond in detail.
To be perfectly frank, I’m at a loss as to where you got the idea that our breakup had anything to do with your inability to dance. Surely I was sometimes embarrassed by your poor attempt at the Mashed Potato, and a version of the Twist that more closely resembled someone impatiently waiting for the bathroom. Granted, you are a shitty fucking dancer. I am not disputing that the sight of you dancing made me ashamed to know you, nevermind be identified as your partner in sex which even the casual observer could imagine to be just as awkward as your attempts at the Alligator. And they would be right, without even knowing how you insisted on telling me to “work it work it” and asking me if I “like it like this”, lines you cutely inserted into your little song to remind me of the most boring limp-dick fucks of my life. And if I had a penny for every time you stepped on my toes, I’d have more money than you ever spent on me during the course of our loveless abortion of a relationship. Maybe you were saving up for dancing lessons? Well perhaps now is a good time to tell you that I don’t give a flying fuck whether you can dance or not, and I’d rather saw my legs off than spend another minute dating a half-wit man-child like you, even if you’ve turned into Fred Astaire reincarnate.
What am I saying? I told you all this when we broke up. I must have listed ten good reasons why I couldn’t spend another second with you. Dancing, if I recall, never came up. I stayed up all night practicing the nicest possible way to let you down--God knows why, given it was far more thought than you’d ever given me in the entire time we’d been together. Honestly I’d shit a brick if you could even tell me what color my eyes are. Remember the time you forgot my birthday? And we have the same birthday? Remember that $400 that you were going to get right back to me? Don’t worry, I’m not holding my breath waiting for that check to come, or else I’d long ago have passed out and smashed my head open, perhaps forgetting the miserable time we spent together and making it all worthwhile. And how many times did I make it clear that you weren’t having a three-way with me and your trash-bag ex, no matter how many of those sly little triple shot rum and Cokes you fed us? What were we even doing hanging out with her in the first place? Oh, right, gratifying your pathetic infantile insecurity, which was my full-time job the entire time we were together. My friends told me all this from the start, but, get this, I thought they were jealous! Jealous! Jealous of my playing handmaiden to a retarded toddler with bad breath, a baby carrot cock, and mommy issues that make Norman Bates seem normal. Who wouldn’t be jealous of that? But no, it must have been because you couldn’t dance. That was the reason. I don’t even like to fucking dance you self-obsessed maggot, but since when did I expect you to know anything about me besides the phone number to call when you needed something.
In case this isn’t clear already, and I wouldn’t be surprised given how fucking stupid you are, I will conclude by answering the song’s titular question, “Do You Love Me? (Now That I Can Dance)” The answer is no. Jesus fucking Christ no. No no no no no. I do not, and will not ever love you, even if you can now dance, which is probably a lie like everything else you ever told me. God I was so fucking stupid. And the mere fact that you thought that learning how to dance would somehow compensate for our differences reassures me that breaking up with you was the best decision I ever made in my life, even if it was made to correct the worst. In closing, if you somehow demonstrate to me a dance maneuver than simultaneously cures Cancer and AIDS, solves world hunger, and does my taxes for me, I will still never ever love a pathetic piece of shit like you.
That being said, congratulations on learning how to dance.
All the best,
[Originally resented at DP Reading Series #7.]