To the monster who picked up drunken, slutty, easy, stupid me one special night: You told me a lot of flattering things, and stupid me, I listened to you. You told me to ignore my friend trying to warn me about you. You told me you make "a great boyfriend." You enjoyed declaring, "Happy birthday, birthday boy" while you impaled me with your oft-described "big black dick," and you called me "sweetheart." But I guess your HIV-positive status just got caught in your throat. I found out after the fuck, from someone else, like your (mercifully healthy) ex did, never mind the weeks you spent sleeping with him after being diagnosed. News flash: In the event of a drunken, slutty, easy, stupid boy failing to ask about the sexual health of your infected ass before coitus, that's when you tell him. Either way I should have heard "positive" from your lying mouth, and I didn't. But you did find the time to tell me that condoms "irritate your hole." BOO FUCKING HOO, and thank every god I didn't listen to you then. Now I have a six-month wait until I know if I'll live past your age. Thanks for making my 21st birthday a night to remember. You deserve to die of AIDS, the sooner the better.