To put it lightly, Andrew was a fucking dick.
A self-confessed drug addict, manipulative liar and unfaithful louse, Andrew unceremoniously dumped Carla for another woman.
Got it so far?
Let’s flash forward six years later.
Through the magnificently intrusive horror we call Facebook, Andrew locates Carla and decides it might be a good time to
Hence, Andrew carefully dusted off his beloved velvet smoking jacket, lit a fire in the study, and lovingly invited his long hair cat Persicles to nest in his lap as a muse.
Lighting his corn cob pipe, he poured himself a tiny glass of sherry and longingly touched quill pen to parchment, in want of expressing lonely, lost truths.
And there he found it.
He pondered what could have been … nay … what should have been.
And then, of course, he composed a vomit-inducing, remarkably self-absorbed ode to his own pain.
Oh, how he hurts.
He wanted to undo what he had once done …
He wanted to right his wrongs …
He wanted to …
Oh, fuck it.
Position your barf bucket.
(click picture for original size)
(It has come to my attention this exchange was stripped from a site called LameBook. Here's their entry: