Your written feelings aren’t worth anything anymore, but then again the novelty wears off quite quickly when you send love letters in e-mail form. Now it’s just a collection of black pixels that I can’t make sense of. As if all this time you’ve been writing in code and I need a new Enigma machine to crack it.
I can’t burn our pictures, so I drag them (passive aggressively) over my desktop to the trash.
You won’t pass my firewall.
You’re as annoying as YouTube commercials that you can’t skip. You’re as cheap as free Internet porn – without the pleasure. Your social media haunts me, and I don’t know if I still know you as a person, or just this unrealistic representation of the actual person you are.
Yes, the irony: you’re still in my newsfeed, but you’re actually yesterday’s news.