You know what, just don’t tell me.

I don’t even want to hear it. I don’t want to know whose trashy earring this is. So I’m just not going to ask. You don’t tell me things, and I don’t tell you things. So why should I have to know? I could have a whole collection of things guys left at my place that you’ll never see. So let’s fucking keep it that way.

Fuck Dana. And fuck you.

I don’t need this shit. Don’t think you can distract me with all your “baby I love you,” “baby I need you” bullcrap. I know what you did. You know what you did. And no amount of saying “I’ll die without you” is going to change that. I have a feeling I know someone who would love it, though! Her name starts with a D and her $5 hoop is in my hand.

It’s fucking Trisha, isn’t it?

Don’t you start with me, because I know who it is, and it sure as hell isn’t Adriana. Those are not her earrings. Look at these earrings. Do they look like Adriana’s? Don’t you play dumb with me. It’s that tramp from the office. You know exactly which tramp, and you know exactly which office. So why don’t you go ahead and keep fooling around with Trisha, and oh—send Adriana my regards.

Really? Jess? REALLY?

You know what? This is on me. Why do I always pick men who want to date girls like me but sleep with girls like Jess? Huh? Because I love to date assholes. I love to date assholes who sleep with people named Jess. So I’m sorry. I’m sorry I did this to myself. And tell Jess I’m sorry her pair of bargain-bin studs went missing.