Dear Greg,

Bethany told me not to snoop. It’s a breach of trust, she said. Yeah, well, you know what else is a breach of trust, Greg? Sleeping with Chloe Daniels.

It’s not even the actual sex that bothers me. That’s not what I went looking for in your phone. I pretty much knew you were banging Chloe ever since she got drunk and kept telling me how much you loved me at the Halloween party. (It’s like the guy who brings flowers to his wife after he fucks his secretary—it was just totally transparent.)

No, I could live with you wanting some strange on the side. Boys will be boys, and all that. What I can’t live with is that she has green texts, Greg.

Green texts.

Oh, who did Greg cheat on you with? Was it a super sexy, well-traveled girl who reads Faulkner? No. It’s someone with a fucking Samsung Galaxy.

Oh, does she volunteer at the animal shelter and have double-D tits and give majorly good blowjobs? No. She has to ask if anybody has an Android charger when her phone’s running low at the bar. And everybody is like, is this girl fucking kidding me? Is she poor?

Does she have wireless headphones, at least? Ha! Yeah, right.

So she walks around with electric rope hanging out of her ears?  You got it.

Well, why did he bang her?  Presumably because he got off on the idea that her phone could explode at any moment, making their unholy trysts all the more thrilling by adding a survival element to the equation.

Does she have a Mac computer, at least? Last I heard, she’s got a Gateway. Desktop.

You’re fucking kidding me. I wish I was. She uses Outlook email.

Jesus Christ. Steven Jobs, I think you mean.

Fuck you, Greg. I should’ve expected this from a guy who never turned off his read receipts. You two deserve each other.

See you in hell,