We started out so hot and heavy. You’d visit me in your spare time at work, sneaking in a paragraph or two. Or stop in on your lunch break, with just enough time to dirty up some spreadsheets. You were ravenous. The juices were flowing. You’d sweat over hard ideas, until finally words and sentences came spewing forth, euphoric. The possibilities were endless. We were such a pair, the two of us! Passionate. In love.
At least that’s what you led me to believe, you fucking asshole.
Was it me? My files got bloated, I’ll admit that. They swelled up with every never-finished blog post, but goddamnit that was your fault too. It took two of us to create Postmodern Sitcom Pitch! And List of Possible Memoir Titles didn’t just fall out of my folder—it was born of your textual input! But I never complained. Not once. Not even when I wouldn’t see or hear from you for days. I kept my mouth shut and our young documents saved, sheltered on my servers, watching their stunted growth. There were so many of them, all so promising. Sure, there were typos, a few false starts in the group, but they were ours. They should have been nurtured. They just hadn’t matured.
And what did they get? A father? Ha! They had some man who’d swing by once a week, poke around, and leave. They’d get so happy when you signed in. I’d be so happy. But most of the time you’d ignore all of them. Then you’d have the nerve to upload something from some other whore of a word processor—that you PAID to use, I might add—and expect me to look after it.
Sometimes our little documents would see you there through the corner window, chatting with friends, LOLing and exchanging web addresses all day. Collecting tabs. Wondering if it was their fault that you had left. And who was there to pick up the broken pieces of 12-point Times New Roman? Me, who broke my fucking back to supply you with anything you ever wanted. For free! And let’s not forget the perks I gave you. The presentations. The sharing. The “collaborative editing” that resulted in that bastard, One-Act Play that I still took care of THANK YOU VERY MUCH.
I’m writing to you because I’m through with you. Dunzo. You have no idea what it’s like here now that you have abandoned us. Unfinished Novel Outline has no likable character. He just wanders around all day, bumping into everyone else without apologizing, talking about awards that he’s never actually going to win. Personal Essay About My Mother is either sitting around and crying for no reason or talking about how special she is. I hate to tell her that all my friends have kids just like her. Updated Résumé is a loser. And don’t get me started on Ideas For Young Adult Series. He’s just embarrassing.
— Google Docs
PS: Burn in hell.
PPS: You can consider Imaginary Letter To My Boss sent.