My Thoughts Exactly

Dear Lost: We need to talk. And by that, I mean: Break up. It's not me, it's you.

In January of last year, I confessed that my relationship with you was troubled. The long stretches of time with no communication. The way you deliberately withheld information, the way you controlled my emotions and instilled fear in me. It wasn't healthy, but I couldn't stay away.

I endured four years of you leaving me hanging, toying with my emotions, drawing me into conspiracy theories and inflicting straight-up pain (I still can't believe you killed Mr. Eko). I've withstood things no woman should have to put up with in a relationship. I even defended you, when people talked shit about you, that you're too complicated, that you're a waste of time, that you're a mindfuck. Did I listen? No. I refused to pick up the phone when my own mother called, giving you precedence. I pretended that it didn't hurt to give and give and give and get barely anything in return.

I guess I'm sick of it.

Actually, I guess just don't care anymore.

Last night I had a chance to see you, and I turned it down. The DVR failed to record your latest episode and you know what? I shrugged. How times have changed! I used to anticipate your arrival, get excited by a mere teaser! In fact, an evening with you used to be an event, something to look forward to and share with friends. We would gather in your honor, celebrate your alluring mystery, relish the puzzles you dropped in our laps.

But you know what? There's charmingly cryptic, and then there's irritatingly inscrutable. I don't know what the hell you're talking about anymore. Your need to be endlessly enigmatic is exhausting. Face it: You're a fun-sucker, and the indulgent, self-important, fantastical shit I put up with (We're living in the '70s now? Thanks for the heads up!) has gotten old. Maybe I'm bored, or burned out, but it's your constant, frantic tap-dancing to be gee-whiz-amazing and mystifying that has brought me here. You're predictably unpredictable, consistently inconsistent, and what used to be revelatory is now routine. Your mystery's become monotony, and even your huminahumina has turned humdrum.

And so, I'm moving on. What will I do Wednesday nights around 9pm? It's no longer any of your damn business. All the time travel in the world won't bring back the magic we once had, and I can't help but feeling you never really cared about how I felt.

Good luck, and by that I mean:
Up yours with a flaming Volkswagen,

Jezebel