on anger directed by me, the dumpee, at the dumper

So, if I was running an anonymous shop here, I wouldn’t even entertain the thought of curtailing my thoughts into something decidedly bland, keeping the anger that rises in me like a venomous cobra, somewhat PC. But who knows how deep into his friendship circle my blog transgresses.
So as anger and hurt stir within – hell hath no fury like a Peas scorned – I need to not be nasty. The whole modus operandi that I am way too familiar with needs to be watered down.

Which defies the whole blog purpose again, doesn’t it. I have to watch my words, try to be nice, and hope not to cause a backlash of offence. So, in essence, his name shall remain Small Bum and not be changed to Small Penis in the interim, as tempting as it is.

One must consider the effects of one’s burning-fire-furnace-anger mixed with pure solid hatred and agonising sadness when one plants one’s life on the Internet. One needs to practice a firm element of control, which is fine by me.
However, I think I deserve a little rage at present. If grief is a process, then I’m somewhere between stage one and two, notwithstanding foreseen rage.

The way I see it: Would it be better to send him my therapy bills from a skull-fuckingly expensive shrink, or would it be best, and less traumatic on his bank balance, just to do it all here? Hopefully I’m allowed to indulge a little. All is fair in love and war afterall, so I will happily give reason why I think that the angry statements I will henceforth spew are justified:

1) I loved him. He did not love me.
2) He dumped me. I did not dump him.

And in case you need more reason than that, you have my word: I will not bitch nastily, if there is such a thing. I won’t comment on, say, his bedroom repertoire, or on the skinniness of his pins. He never treated me badly, he was never nasty. In fact, I almost respect him for his cutting-edge honesty about how frankly he didn’t give a fuck about me.

Therefore, I won’t comment on things he cannot change.
I will only comment on the things he can.
This way, the anger he deserves from me is directed his way in a purely constructive manner. I promise to do only one daily bitching per post per day. It will be short, sweet and cathartic.

Soon, hopefully, I’ll be warming my chilly winter bed through the medium of compulsive and frictional masturbation, as soon as the comforting heady hormones driving my insatiable libido allow me so. And later on, hopefully, a few random men whose socks I will knock off, simply by opening my mouth. One dares to dream.

Small Bum Goes to Hollywood (And Frankie wasn't invited):
He rates himself. He even told me with a straight face that he gives himself a 9/10. The problem is I rate Jake Gyllenhaal a 9/10. For the love of Christ, does he honestly think he is in the same arena as Hollywood’s arguably best looking man? Although this is secondary to the actual rating of oneself, itself.
Who does that? Does Brad Pitt even do that? By all means, get rated. But never do it yourself. Adding insult to [his] injury, I noticed him not the first, or the second, but only the third time we met. Giving credit where it is due, his personality is what interested me enough to talk to him to start with.
Lesson learnt: Arrogance is not an endearing quality to look for in a man with above-average looks, but whose personality way surpasses this.