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To the New Yorkers I've Dated: I'm Sorry

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In writing an open letter apology to my exes I’ve realized two things about myself: 1) I keep trying to make booty calls into relationships, and 2) I cry in public... a lot. So to all the men I have cried in front of/chased away, I’d like to say I’m sorry. It’s not you, it’s me. (Except sometimes it’s you.)
 

Dear Young Westchester,

First, I want to thank you for being the first guy to touch me. You were really hot, so I really appreciate it. Second, thanks for being such a great first boyfriend, but you seriously screwed up my adult expectations. Apparently it’s not common to remember birthdays, express how you feel, or you know... stay until morning. I’m sorry I couldn’t lock you down at 16 because everyone else on this list was not as thoughtful/hot as you.

Dear Slightly Older Westchester,

I’m not exactly sure we actually dated, but we did hook up on and off for about seven years and I’m pretty sure you’ve bought me dinner (if vodka is dinner), so this technically counts. I’m sorry we never quite got the timing right. I’m also sorry I cried that one time we had sex on the couch in your basement. I still have no idea what that was about. That must have been awkward for you.
 

Dear Brooklyn,

I’m just confused as to why you didn’t end it with me, seeing as I was a straight psycho. I actually judge you a little bit for this. I’m sorry for all the times I cried at the bar and all the times after the crying that I yelled at you in the street. To this day I can’t recall you ever doing a single terrible thing, so that is all on me. I hear you’re doing super well, got married, and that you’re now loaded soooo...I’m just going to go ahead and say you’re welcome.  
 

Dear Jersey,

I’m sorry I dipped my pen in the company ink... for four years. I have some choice jokes at the ready, but this could escalate quickly, so you just do you and I’m gonna do me and that’s that.
 

Dear DC,

I’m just really sorry. Honestly.

Dear Switzerland,

I’m sorry I live in Astoria and that that was too far from Hell’s Kitchen (it’s not). I’m also sorry I took you to a sex party in a last-ditch effort to make you fall in love with me, even though you had been perfectly clear that all you wanted was random sex (just not in Queens). My bad. But thanks for the tacos at the end of the night... oh, and also thanks for the yeast infection.
 

Dear Boston,

I’m really sorry I did not bolt immediately upon you entering the bar. Your shirt was unbuttoned to your stomach, you had a variety of scarves and man-jewelry. You proceeded to tell me (on our first date) that you thought we’d be a good couple because I was a travel writer and you wanted to be a stay-at-home dad. I can’t fault you for any of that, though, because I should have left as soon as I saw the gemstones on your fingers glisten. This evening was entirely my fault.

Dear Rome,

I’m sorry (not sorry at all) you were my first Tinder experience. I’m sure you remember we had sex on the roof of a warehouse in Greenpoint (you put down your jacket for me; #gentleman), but I haven’t heard from you since the summer so maybe you don’t remember... or maybe I didn’t understand the one-night-stand concept of the app. You probably really regret giving me your phone number.
 

Dear Delaware,

Um... are we still dating? If you read this, can you let me know? Not sure if I owe you an apology yet. Thanks.

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Meagan Drillinger is a freelance writer for Thrillist. Pending a response from "Delaware," she is single and ready to mingle! Ask her out on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram.