I wear t-shirts too often.
I don’t act like a grown-up.
I don’t eat well.
I don’t communicate well.
You want more out of sex.
I want too much sex.
I have a small penis.
I work out too much.
I don’t work out enough.
I don’t laugh at your jokes.
My jokes aren’t funny.
I’m not emotionally available.
My penis is so big it hurts you sometimes.
I act out when things get too real or personal.
I make up too many things, most of all my ego, my self worth, and my life’s imagined trajectory.
I’m not as funny as I think I am when I’m drunk and you’re sober.
You think it’s weird that I’m already drafting my memoir even though I don’t amount to much yet.
You know I think it’s weird too.
I don’t make a lot of money.
I don’t like my job.
I sometimes come home drunk and depressed, and it’s a lot to deal with.
I don’t throw away socks with holes in them because people can’t see them, but you think that’s gross.
I do the same thing with my underwear, old and tattered.
I still play music on cassette tapes.
I refuse to throw away that one VHS tape because it’s the only copy I have of the original Star Wars: A New Hope, before the Special Edition, recorded one time when I was nine, and it was airing on USA Network, commercials and all, even though we don’t have a VCR to watch it on.
I don’t amount to much.
You expected better.
You deserved better.
I shouldn’t have slept with your best friend.
I never walked the dog.