The Easy Out Clause

Crazy lady introduces herself. We hit it off. Crazy lady tells me she's not interested in a relationship. We make out a lot. Crazy lady gets blasted and tells me she's falling for me, but isn't going to let it go any further. We have sex. Crazy lady tells me she doesn't wanna' see me anymore. We make up. Crazy lady tells me she loves me. I don't hear from her for days. Crazy lady tells me to leave her alone. I laugh at the unbelievable insanity of the entire situation, wash my hands of it, and happily oblige.
Since I'm sure she'll read this, considering the last time she told me she didn't want anything to with me she bitched me out within twenty-four hours for the post resulting from her blatant insanity (see: Crazy lady tells me she doesn't wanna' see me anymore), here's a little open love letter. Mature? No. Liberating? Oh, you'd better believe it.
You? You're a fucking vulture. You're the reason guys like me become guys like the one you're still hung up on. You're the reason that men and women don't get along, because by the time people like you are done creating bastards out of decent men with your amoral, inconsiderate bullshit, they've already dicked around enough women to create even more selfish bitches. Sure, we could argue about which came first, but it wouldn't matter. You're perpetuating the cycle. You're drawing out the battle of the sexes.
And in the end? You're the one who loses. There's no crawling back this time, so please save us both the embarassment and don't try. There is no amount of humility that can buy you another shot at being more than just another notch on the bedpost, another mistake, another pothole on the road to happiness. To you, I was the guy you were afraid to admit you loved. I was the guy who was good enough to make you fall, and would've made you happy if you weren't too afraid to give me the opportunity. I was the guy who could've, possibly, if you'd dumped all your baggage off sooner, been something real.
You? You were just another headcase, one of many in a long line of nihilistic sluts who fuck early and leave even earlier.
You were number thirty-one.
You were beneath me.
And now? You're a bad memory.
Peace, bitch. I'm out.