I don’t watch The Real Housewives series at all. I’ve never been much of a reality fan, particularly after my dubious debut on a po-dunk one several years ago after my quarter life crisis. However, because I do read Celebitchy (and if you don’t, I suggest you do), I do follow Brandi Glanville. If you don’t know who she is (and honestly you really shouldn’t, I’m slightly embarrassed), she was married to this N list actor, Eddie Cibrian who then had an affair with Leann Rhymes while Leann Rimes was still married to that dude of question straightness when they filmed some Lifetime movie together. There was a real messy divorce and Leann Rimes kind of went psychotic and very single white female on Brandi, and most of the arguments were on Twitter. It was stupid and childish, but entirely entertaining. She is now on RHOBH
Brandi later wrote a book called Drinking and Tweeting and it was all about the breakup with Eddie and how Leann was a crazy pants. I admit, i bought it, read it and kind of loved it. Brandi is not my type of woman - typical California, botox, spends a lot of time at Dry bar and is fighting her 40s big time with plastic surgery Beverly Hills but not rich types. But she is pretty fucking funny. And I liked her book mainly because it did something so many women have wanted to do in the past but never did for fear of being labeled “crazy” or “obsessed”; called out a guy for being a dick.
We’re all told when a guy treats us like shit or breaks up with us or cheats on us or is just overall an asshole, to let it go. To not harp on it. And while in many instances I agree with that, there are others I do not. If you read my blog, you know I am not shy when it comes to calling out dudes for shitty behavior. Washing dirty laundry in public might not always be the best decision, but in some cases I think it should be celebrated. I am a firm believer in taking responsibility for the type of person you are. If someone wants to call me out publicly for being a dick, go for it. I’ll fight back. If I deserve it, I deserve it. I never understood why holding men accountable and letting the world know how big of a dick they were was considered “not lady like”. Standing up for yourself is entirely lady like.
A few months ago, I dabbled. I wrote a piece, more so for myself and my own sanity, about a guy I was buds with for a while, a guy I cared about a lot, who in so many ways was a huge asshole to me. Since then, haven’t really thought about him. Tried to repair the friendship a few months down the line, there were definitely some drunk texts on my end I’ll own, but overall, it was over. I was sad, but shit happens, life goes on. I had made mistakes too, and I assumed between those and the new girl, there would just be no getting passed it this time.
It wasn’t until his new ex - the girl he unceremoniously chose over me - and I spoke, that I decided to write this. Because those two infamous words came up. “He said you were psycho, like legit obsessed with him.”
And that’s when I decided to stand up for myself. And for her. And for all women who get that title handed to them for simply being upset when someone is a dick to us. And so, I begin my open letter to him.
I’m sure no where in your description of me, or the situation you and I had, did you tell your now ex about who was there for you every time you got optioned. About how you text me and got mad at me when I didn’t hang out with you in Chicago, about how you told me you’d never speak to me again if I hooked up with one of your friends. About how you asked me to go on vacation with you last year, about how you told me we had to “solve” the situation that was me seeing someone when you decided you wanted to cuddle with me. About your jealousy, about our conversations, about our friendship. I bet you didn’t tell her how much I cared about you, or about all the times you told me you cared about me. I bet our friendship was widdled down to nothing more than me being an overzealous fan. Because god forbid you take responsibility for the shitty things you did.
In fact, I don’t have to bet on all those things. I know. She told me. She told me about how you were more concerned about your career being hurt by what I wrote the last time around than the fact that I was basically telling you you were a shit friend who really hurt a girl who cared about you. That you were more concerned with your public image, than your private one.
We talked a lot in fact. About how needy you were. About your inability to ever commit to anyone using baseball as an excuse. About how when I told you I had a lump in my breast and asked if we could talk because I was scared, you never even sent me a text to wish me luck or see if I was okay. About your lame ass tattoo, and hilariously, about how bad you are at sex. No surprise there, as someone who has never had a legit girlfriend in their adult life, cared about someone equal to or more than yourself, how could you know what women like? You’re selfish in most other areas of your life, the idea of you trying to do one thing to make the girl feel good in bed is laughable at best. Here’s a hint moving forward, throwing a chicks ankles over your shoulders and drilling isn’t going to impress anyone. you might wanna try a new tactic.
We talked about how you didn’t even break up with the new girl, how you just blocked her and stopped talking to her because, you know, that’s how adults roll.
Most of all, we talked about all the shitty things you said about me. And I had to laugh. I had to laugh because you are such a God damn pussy, that that’s how you dealt with it all. By putting me down, painting me as something I really wasn’t, and completely blowing off the year and a half I stuck by you and was a damn good friend to you. Yeah, I was a little pissed and confused by the fact that you didn’t end up wanting to date. Yeah, I did tell you I loved you because I did. And yeah, I was terribly hurt that you chose someone else over me and threw away our friendship over the next best thing. That friendship that you once accused ME of “tearing down”. That you once described as great. But looking back, how could I have been surprised? That’s who you always have been. Selfish, self centered, egotistical and above all, obsessed with fame. Obsessed with your public image. Maybe it’s because you don’t have that ability in baseball, you aren’t like the other, more well known, more talented players you hang with and take hundreds of selfies with to prove you’re one of the boys, maybe it’s insecurity, maybe it’s just a desire to be famous and get validation from strangers on Twitter and Instagram. Whatever it is, the only thing I can say is you’re a fucking liar and your public image is the furtherest thing from who you ever really will be. You treat people in a manner that suggests they are only good enough to care about if they can do something for you and your image. You treat women like disposable objects and when they get pissed about it, you label them as crazy or psycho. You run through N list IG models like a fat kid in a Twinkie eating contest. Take a look around you, kid. All your teammates? Married. Girlfriends. Fiancés. Babies. You? You’ve never even been in love. You’ve never actually kept a girl around long enough to realize that women aren’t there simply to make you happy. You’re dating girls seven, eight, nine years younger than you because that’s your maturity level. And it’s really quite sad.
I used to think you were a good one. I’d sit and talk with you over beers and I adored you, kid. But sometimes I’d watch you when we were out, holding court while I was off chatting with your married teammates so as not to cock block you from the 10 random girls you were chatting with, and wonder what it was about you that made you such a dick. And then you’d come over, take my hand and tell me we were leaving. But the reality is, all I saw in you was the potential for the guy you could have been. The glimmers of goodness that were far too often shut out by your fucking ridiculous ego. The brains that were smothered by your fame seeking and slutty snapchat checking dick. You were worried what I wrote would ruin your reputation, your career? It’s not about what I write. It’s about who you are. Enough women (and men, for that matter) have gotten to know you well enough to know who you really are. The shitty person who makes fun of his “friends”, talks bad about his teammates and acts like the greatest guy in the world so some poor DJ will interview him when one of the bigger names won’t do the show. At the end of the day, your own personality, your own ego, your own inability to ever give a shit about someone else, is what will ruin your rep and maybe your career. Not one of the (I’m sure numerous) chicks who you’ve fucked over’s opinion. There’s that old saying, “character is who you are when no one’s looking”. I hate to break it to you, but who you are when your fans and followers aren’t looking, is pretty shitty. You have it in you to be a better guy, I know because I saw it and that’s who I adored. But you’re just too hung up on the bullshit to get it.
Go ahead, read this and tell everyone I’m crazy. A psycho. Obsessed. Tell the new snap chat chick of the day that I am a psycho. The reality is, they all know I’m telling the truth. That none of this is fabricated or bitter lies. It’s the sad truth corroborated now by another girl you managed to treat like shit. Instead of being pissed about me calling you out for the things you told another girl about me in order to cover your own ass, why not look inside yourself for seven seconds and realize hey, maybe I am a dick. Maybe I have treated people shitty. And maybe I am an egotistical fuck who could afford to take myself off the pedestal I put myself on because at the end of the day, I’m not that awesome. You won’t, because narcissists can’t see their own flaws. So please, go ahead, call me a crazy bitch and go on fucking every new blonde girl who follows you on Twitter. Eventually the person you are will not be able to hide behind cutsie tweets and I’ll simply sit back and watch. I’ve been very cool without you in my life for all this time, but just felt a need to address the shit you said about me some months back, and make amends to the misplaced blame I put on a girl for the way you treated me.
I say this all not because I’m bitter, not because I’m hung up on you, and certainly not because I’m crazy. But I say this for every woman who has ever gotten treated like shit by a guy who then walked away and blamed the girl. For every guy who only told half the story in order to make how he treated the girl seem acceptable. Because shitty people deserve to be called out for their shittiness. Because I found out all the lovely things you said about me and decided, nuh uh, that ain’t gonna fly, no matter how much time has passed, no matter how far along I’ve moved on. And now the world, and every other poor chick who falls for your Twitter charm, can have both sides of the story. Mine, and yours. And I don’t worry, because all it will take is a few months for them to realize which side is the truth. Just like your ex. Keep telling the women who care about you they can’t take pictures with you because of “privacy”. Keep lying to them about how you need to focus on baseball, and keep repeating the same stupid mistakes over and over that we laugh at after the fact. There’s a reason your ex is in a new relationship already, it’s because she saw the writing on the wall months before you went all 13 year old emo on her. It’s because she set herself up nicely and played your game better than you, darling. It’s weird when it appears your 23 year old ex has more experience in relationships and maturity than you do being almost 30.
But I digress. Be a better person, kid. Treat women like women, not porn stars in your favorite college themed porn video. You’re not as great as you think, and you certainly have no right in ever treating anyone the way you have. You hurt me not because I was crazy or obsessed, but because I considered you my bud. Someone who’d look out for me the way I did you. Someone I could trust. You shot it to hell. If you ever knew what it was to value a friendship or love someone, you’d know the difference between that and obsession. It’s not because you wouldn’t date me, bud, it’s because you couldn’t put your own feelings aside for a minute to be there for me for once. Obsessed? No. Try disgusted. “Good talk”.
PS - general consensus. Stop singing in the car. You're awful.