I should have left the first time you called me a cunt. We were on your boat and you didn't like my outfit (too short) and I didn't change for you. And you spat that word at me like it was normal. That was three years ago, and you've only gotten worse. I know you run a company and you are responsible for millions of dollars and you have lawsuits and employees and stress. And when that stress takes over, you hurt me with your words. Bitch. Cunt. Slut. Fuck you. And I'm supposed to forgive you and forget everything you say—only remember the good times and live life like it's some fucking champagne commercial. I'm supposed to look at myself in the mirror and be happy with what I see when you're finished with your rage. What the world sees of you is everything that is perfect. You are so good looking, so young and successful, so smart. You live life with all the sparkling benefits of youthful wealth, but it's all so empty. What I see in you is a pathetic child who, and this is such a cliché, was brutally bullied by his father and has never been able to make peace with himself. I thought I could fix you, soften up your rough edges, but whatever makes that rage inside you isn't an easy fix. I don't even want to touch you anymore. I can't even look in your eyes.