I am done with you. I should’ve listened to my gut, better yet, my lungs, when we first started hanging out, cause if I listened to them, we would have never hung out. You’re a good time rolled up into a silent killer, I’ll admit it, you’re much better than blowing crushed-up pills, or any of those fucked up drugs my dad still warns me of. But I can’t keep living like this. You’ve killed off old relatives with no remorse, no respect for mankind, you make breathing hurt while putting the hearse on speed-dial. Get it? Die-al? Whatever. What I’m trying to say is, you’re a terrible thing to have to mind.

Honestly, how I can discuss the merits of anti-capitalism while I’m figuratively and literally sucking the fumes of exploitation and death down my throat? Is this a sick fucking joke? I won’t make this about class and I won’t say that I’m broke, though I think for some of us, a brand of liberation is in store once we stop stopping by the drug store to pick up a brand of cancer and confrontation, by whatever means necessary. While I enjoy the sweet smell of summer nights and the mental image of all our mutual friends, and your liberal providing of both of them, when it comes down to it, I do not like you.

Keep in mind, this issue is more personal than anything. Some people need a break in their day, a break from the nonsense, and if it takes a smoke to “get away from it all”, then go for it. Body autonomy and all, you know?

But when it comes to this body, you will never again kiss (read: singe) these lips with your lies that promise a vaguely positive outcome, but instead deliver yellower teeth and an earlier funeral. I’m telling you, some friendships last forever, but this one’s not one of them. We’re over, for real.