I remember that you laughed at me when I told you, originally, when we met last year, that I live in a drama-free zone. Maybe it did sound funny. I was hoping you were laughing because it appeared so obvious to you that this was the case because who, in their right mind, really, ever wants to dwell in drama?
I explained to you that I work very hard to maintain the parameters and perimeters of my little fuss-free-fiefdom.
You see, I've learned the hard way that drama begets more drama and the only way to stay away from "hot effing mess" is to not even turn down that road to Dramaville in the first place, and so I don't. I just keep on driving past that exit and I don't even look over my shoulder or in the rear view.
You didn't really know me when you met me, so who knows what you were thinking, and at the time, it didn't really matter. But, you see, it matters now, doesn't it? Yes indeedy!
Because, as it turns out, you've hung out the "See Me For Drama" shingle and the "Step On In Here 'Cause My Shit Just Gets Crazier and Crazier" mat in front of your little door.
I'd like to take this opportunity to point out that I gave you fair warning and I'm just a little too old and, I'd like to think, a little too wise, to ever go there again, with you, or with anybody.
I'm sure this will hurt your feelings, and I'd tell you I'm sorry, but I'm not really. It was your choice to spritz with crazy cologne, and it's your choice to feel bad that I can smell you coming and choose to steer clear.
So, no, I'm not calling you back. And, no, you can't come over. And, well, gosh, no, I'm not free to get together.
All the best to you.