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I’m selfish.

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.

Thomas Viehe

Thomas Viehe prefers pop over soda, loo over toilet, fall over autumn. He lives with his wife and dog in a remote part of the country, Washington, D.C.

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