I get it; you don’t love me anymore. But could you at least have the courtesy not to tell all your friends about my little “problem”? This is, in case you haven’t noticed, a very small island, and word spreads faster than a tourist girl’s legs after three mai tais and a moonlight ukulele serenade. The dating pool is already shallow enough without having a three stroke handicap before I even step up to the tee, if you’ll excuse the mixed sports metaphor. In all honesty, your big mouth has driven me to start pricing plane tickets to some place that doesn’t feature a hag of an ex girlfriend who can’t keep bedroom secrets in the bedroom. Now that I think about it, that was probably your plan all along. And since I refuse to give you the satisfaction of driving me out, I guess I’ll just keep spending Friday nights with Rosy Palm and her five sisters, and fill the rest of my time hating you.