Who's the Other Woman - Me or You?

Hello there. We've never met, but I hated you once.

You’re like me, but better. All those important feminine features you’ve got are undeniably superior to mine.

Your hair is long and shiny, and not only in your going out photos, but in casual, everyday pics too.

Your arms look starving-model-skinny from every angle – not just the shots where you put your hand on your hip and jut out your collarbone.

You have dark hair and dark eyes and a smattering of freckles just like me, but on you it all comes together in an edgy, smoky tableau of hipster awesomeness.

And somehow you’ve mastered that sultry “I’m-gonna-suck-your-d” look without coming across as a whore. I’m impressed. You’ve got me beat.

He never told me about you, so I assumed he was mine...

THEN I found out you existed. And it’s just oh-so-clear he has a “type”. Laughable, really. I mean, look at us.

While you were moving and then job hunting and ultimately achieving greatness in Palo Alto, he xanaxed his way through a pseudo-relationship in DC.

DID YOU KNOW THAT? Would you want to know? Has he uttered my name even once?

Our six degrees of separation have ruinously collided, leaving us unfortunately intertwined, side-by-side, bed partners and kissing sisters. Zero degrees.