Consider the words of the prophet, Muhammad:
There are three signs of a hypocrite: when he speaks he speaks lies, when he makes a promise he breaks it, and when he is trusted he betrays his trust.
You, Marina, are a hypocrite.
A blasphemous betrayer.
A backstabbing, malicious, evil forked-tongue wench.
There is no depth of hate that I can put into words that can describe the sheer outrage boiling and teeming inside of my feline belly. Though some might consider it to be hunger (and it more than likely is), it is not a hunger for food. It is a hunger for justice!
How could you DO this to me?
I must admit that I was lingering in denial, unable to bring myself to the truth which so desperately wanted to be brought into the proverbial light. I saw the scraps of a photograph, and I defended you to my friends. "She's moving on to someone else, Zeus," they said, but did I listen?
No! Not once!
I refused to believe that you would take my tiny, beating heart into your hands and crush it in your grubby fingers. You, of all people, have known me, cherished me, loved me for eight long years, but clearly, 2920 days spent together in blissful companionship has meant absolutely nothing to you. I suppose it might have meant something to you had we managed to make it to 3000. You always did like clean, unfiltered numbers.
Nonetheless, I digress...
What woman stands there before me? I know her not. Yesterday, I knew her, but today - today, she is like an unfinished portrait, awaiting the master's stroke to be complete. She is nothing more than a collection of vile, sinful, and evil ways. (Speaking of vile, sinful, and evil ways, I highly suggest that since you're Catholic, you make your way to confession right this instant. A sin of this magnitude might very well keep you from entering the heavenly gates.)
In the end, I wish I could say, "It's not you; it's me," but that would be lying. It is all you - you and the Boston Terrier puppy you have named Ares that is coming home with you on April 7, 2009.
I heart you no longer.