The Alphamale (or the ABC's of why I'm leaving you for a woman)

A is for asking for anal and the “accidental” slip into the wrong slot when the answer was still NO.

B is for beer pong and your Budweiser breath on my ear begging me to go bed with you, a charming “you’re beautiful,” and suave belch.

C is for cheating when we played checkers, cheating when we played chess, and cheating when you said it was love.

D is for the dozen drunk dials I awoke to when you dared to slur, “Are you suuuure you’re disease-free?”

E is for every time I envied the eternally true iloveyous of lovers lost in each other’s eyes when my own ears were only ever graced by echoes of my malcontent emotion.

F is for my favorite feud: who got too friendly with whose friends first and all the other fights over who fucked who over most; it got far too physical for me pretty fucking fast.

G is for your grotesque grease-stain glow because you think you look like a rockstar when you don’t bathe, but really you have all the glamour of the gray gravy goo my granny saves in a jar in her fridge.

H is for your hard-boiled heart and my hunger to be held by a human, maybe one made of some humble heat instead of your unholy hands at my haunches.

I is for the imperfect self-image I developed ever since you inquired if I’d ever considered implants.

J is for being jarred by your jealousy of the jocks at the gym who I’d never even talk to.

K is for keeping secret your kamikaze-style of kissing because I could never find a kind way to say that a shish-kabob could show you up in a kissing contest.

L is for the look on your lying lips when “I love you” leaked out for the first time.

M is for my mother’s well-meant advice to look for a “more well-mannered man (maybe one with money or at least morals)."

N is for never finding it necessary to nix your unruly neck-beard, no matter how many times I let you know it nauseates me.

O is for the outrageous outnumbering of your orgasms to my zer-Oh!

P is for the puke on my new purse, pulling off your piss-soaked pants before I put you into bed, and the putrid lack of apology lingering in the air the morning after.

Q is for your not-quite clever quips and the quiet that quickly follows in order to quell the pique to my pride when you speak.

R is for my resentment towards the way you never make my phone ra-ra-ringgg when you promise, “Really, I’ll call you right after work.”

S is for saying, “Let’s see a movie at seven,” stealing sixteen dollars from my wallet, and not being able to spare seven stolen bucks for my ticket.

T is for is for your Tic-Tacked tongue, the tartar-crusted teeth you never brush, how your tongue tortured my mouth like the rusty tool used to poke at a dying fire.

U is for my unfortunately under-touched undercarriage and your unappreciative utterances once you’ve used me to get off.

V is for my vain attempt to fill the void in my life with your volatility.

W is for when I washed your whites and found an out-of-place pair of women’s underwear, which you swore were mine.

X is for the X-rated stories of your exes that you are so excited to recite to me, despite my vexed protests.

Y is for your yo-yo yearning and spurning of your loved ones.

Z is for your zealous Zoloft-popping so that you no longer have to feel anything human and can go on living like the alpha males of the zoo.