Dear exboyfriend,

Earlier this evening, I told you, “I used to believe that we could be friends, but now just thinking about you makes me violently ill.”
Since you’ve probably convinced yourself that you haven’t done anything wrong lately, I’m sure you are very confused and on the verge of deciding that I’m crazy and not worth believing. Before you do that, let me explain myself.
My best friend’s grandfather died three weeks ago, and you were there to comfort her, as a friend. What neither she nor I knew at the time was that you weren’t comforting her; instead, you were using her distress as an excuse to rub your body against hers for hours.
A week and a half later, after she had returned from Indiana and was much less distraught, you ran your hand up her thigh while both of you were eating out with a group of friends. She told you to stop. You felt her up again. She repeated her request for you to stop. You persisted.
You repeated this pattern in the hot tub—complaining loudly when she moved away from you, Mr. Grope, to talk to Zach, Mr. Respect—and a few nights ago when she was too exhausted to argue. You are taking advantage of her fear of conflict and her embarrassment.
Because she is a kind, sensitive person, my best friend felt guilty about what you were doing to her, since she is both your roommate’s exgirlfriend and your exgirlfriend’s best friend. She thought I would be mad at her. Well, I’m not mad at her. I know you and what goes on in your sick little brain. I know from personal experience that you do not understand the meaning of stop. You can try to argue that after living in Brazil, you’ve forgotten some English words, but I'll break your teeth before you finish your sentence.
You have driven her away from her own apartment, yet you dare to complain when she leaves to get away from you.
Do you see why I feel so violently ill when I think about you? Do you understand that I would feel this way whether I had dated you or not? Nobody should be treated as you are treating my best friend. I’ve imagined throttling you, and I’ve imagined feeling good about it afterwards.
You don’t deserve it, but she and I are both offering you a truckload of mercy: We’re going to tell you your future. My best friend has independently decided that the next time you make her uncomfortable in any way, she’s going to tell the one woman you’re afraid of what you’ve been up to. As you know, when that happens, all hell will break loose.
I’m also going to tell you that the day my best friend goes public with what you’re doing to her, I will also gather the woman you fear, her short collaborator, my best friend, your brother, and your roommates and tell them all about what you did to me while we were dating and why I really broke up with you. Until now, I thought you deserved to keep your holier-than-thou façade because there was a slight chance that you may grow into it. Then you hurt my friend.
If you want to keep your friends and your false dignity, you will never touch my best friend again.
I don’t mean your never, which lasts about three days. I mean that when my best friend visits you in the Telestial Kingdom, you won’t touch her.
Think or say whatever you want about me, but keep your fithly hands off my friend. However, if you really think I’m lying or exaggerating, just try feeling her up or holding her hand one more time. Except that it would cause her more trauma, I almost want you to, so you can see how serious I am.
Thank you for leaving relatively quickly tonight, you saved my throat from hoarseness because I didn’t get a chance to yell at you.
Sincerely,
Bethylene