Dear Darryn;

[caption id="attachment_3970" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="And now I know why this doesn't look like me: because you're a liar."][/caption] I probably could have overlooked your pathetic attempts at artistic expression. I mean, I think I handled it well when I found out you’d taken naked pictures of me with your iPhone while I was sleeping and sent them to your friends. Just so we’re clear, it doesn’t make a difference that the pictures were taken with a “retro-camera app,” as you called it. And also, just so we’re clear, I’m still within my window to press charges. And your “found object” period? I don’t know how many other women would let you fill their living room full of run-over traffic cones, scraps of tire, and cast-off wax-paper soda cups. Again, for the sake of clarity, I understood what you meant—what was signified—by calling your installation down at the community college “After Dylan.” I didn’t fail to react out of ignorance, as you suggested to that ridiculous art slut at the house party afterwards, I was just wildly under-whelmed. The loans I know will never be repaid, the cigarettes I always bought and you always smoked, the lame people you brought over who passed out drunk and pissed themselves on my couch, I could have forgiven it all, probably. But you fuck like you make art—uninspiredly and with no real understanding of the tools of the craft. And that’s just unforgivable.