Hell Hath No Fury: Stare-Hard Part Deux

The first text messages I sent this morning read as follows (to Alice, of course):

"I am SO done with men. Done. Finito! They are mean and they stink. And (insert stare-hard's name here) thinks he is too good for ME?! Hello, (insert stare-hard's name here)! You are a poorly dressed, pinky class ring wearing, bad haired, Star Wars obsessed VET TECH (as if that is a real career)! What, too lazy? Not ambitious enough or smart enough to achieve the REAL thing by the time you're 38 years old? I am just saying that I was willing to lower my standards. Give you a chance. Maybe even help you and give you some pointers in the disaster area that is your appearance. But off you went to be a balls-less, 38-year-old virgin. So be my guest: stay that way! Moon after your white trash (insert stare-hard's unrequited love interest's name here) forever for all I care. Because the truth is that few girls are as decent, intelligent, and kind (I know, I know readers--I actually said this in the midst of this message) as I am. The truth is that I am better off. P.S. Dry clean your suit. It stinks of stale food and cat litter."

This is how I get over crushes. Clearly, CLEARLY, I need help.