Go ahead — tell me how much you need me, and how much you’ve missed me, since the last time you rejected me. I give literally zero fucks. Tell me what an incredibly important and earth-shattering project you’re working on, and how nobody else in the Universe but me has the capacity to help you make it a reality. I give literaly zero fucks. Tell me how special our connection is, tell me how much you want to be with me, and then tell me a thousand and one sob stories about why you can never seem to just be there for me. You guessed it — I give literally zero fucks. I mean, just look at me, and the way I’m holding my head so wearily in this postcard. Could it be any clearer, to any passing observer, that I give literally zero fucks? And for that, I have to hand it to you. You worked really hard, and over such a substantial period of time, to induce my literally-zero-fucks-giving. How many other men would have stuck around, in the name of firmly extinguishing all the loving hope and promise they once held in a woman’s imagination? You have done your job thoroughly and done it well, as evidenced by the fact that I have zero more fucks to give. But what I want to thank you for the most, actually, isn’t the lack of fucks I have in my current inventory of fuck-giving. What you deserve the most appreciation for is what my total lack of fucks has opened up for me, in my own life, now. Isn’t it funny how those are so inversely correlated? The fewer fucks I have to give about you, the more fucks I have to give about me. ❤️‍🔥—Y.B.D.