I drink bourbon. You drink Busch Light. You gel your hair like a Backstreet Boy, and you're 30. Despite these superficial yet obvious incompatibilities, I dated you for nine months—and for most of it, I actually believed that we loved each other. I didn't even see the flaws of my thinking when you got blackout drunk on my birthday and abandoned me. Not even when you failed to pick me up from the abortion. I accepted your apology after you said that I'm only attractive to you when I wear makeup. I even deluded myself into thinking that I must have gotten genital herpes from a nonsexual source because I was faithful to you. I deluded myself because you temporarily abated my depression. I deluded myself because I'm insecure and a masochist. I guess I truly needed to see the chlamydia meds with not just your name on them but hers as well. You are my third-least-favorite person after the two men who humiliated and violated me in a park six years ago. I pity you but thank you. I learned so much.