Louis C.K. My Louis. My fake fantasy boyfriend …

HOW COULD HE?

I am mentally throwing his belongings out onto the sidewalk below our imaginary New York City apartment right fucking now. Boom!

You like this shirt, asshole? Well now it’s toilet paper for the dog that just shit on it! What about this bullshit I’m-just-a-regular-guy-like-you sweatshirt? It’s taking a leap, motherfucker! You better get between me and your laptop because that’s next! Your porn collection is going out the window, dickhead!

I feel so betrayed.

But while I’m doing this, I am beating back the urge to make it OK. He didn’t actually assault anyone … that we know about so far. More women are going to come out of the woodwork, right? They always do. He has a problem ... some toxic mix of too much porn (which is a problem for society in general), too much fame, some deep-seated self loathing, which always comes up in his comedy, doesn’t it? And …

Do I hear myself? Am I actually saying all of this? Am I making excuses for this man? Why?

Do I now have to say goodbye to all that we had? Our one-sided, unrequited romance? My late-night confessions that only Louis, another single parent out in the dating world, would understand?

Did it all mean nothing?

Imaginary Trish in our imaginary apartment is now sitting on the bed, crying and sob-talking at Louis …

Remember when the psychic told me that I was going to fall in love with someone with reddish hair and then I came home and saw you on  TV and I just knew she meant you? Remember when I cyberstalked you on Twitter and you ignored me? Remember when I confessed that I had to do the walk of shame and then we (mentally) fist-bumped each other because … oh yeah!

Do we have to throw it all away? Baby … can you go to therapy? Would that matter? Or would it just be a Band-Aid that doesn’t quite fit over the pus-filled, sucking wound that it’s trying to cover? We’ll pretend that things are better, but we’ll both know they’re really not.

Because what you did, Louis, what you did is so deeply sick. To convince yourself that you’re walking around in your own personal porno … dude, you’re smart enough to know that you were taking advantage. You’re smart enough to know that this was not a mutual thing … these women were not getting off on what you were doing.

These are people’s daughters! YOU HAVE DAUGHTERS!

Of all the stories that have come out, the one I keep thinking of is the one in the hotel room with the two female comedians. I can imagine being in that situation … someone you admire invites you and your friend upstairs for one more drink. You’re having fun. You go. The man you admire asks if he can take out his penis. Thinking that, certainly, the guy must be joking because he’s a comedian, you go “Yeah, sure!” I don’t know what the women said, but I probably would’ve said something like that … thinking it would never happen.

Then you took off all your clothes. I can imagine meeting my girlfriend’s eyes like “Whaaaaat is going on here?” I can imagine trying to swim up through the shock that would have certainly overtaken my brain to start running calculations …. What now? Do we leave? Is this a joke? We’re all comedians … this is still funny, right? Funny? How long can we laugh about this? If we get up, will he try to grab one of us? He’s big. He’s bigger than us. Clearly, some switch has flipped in his brain and all assumptions of normal behavior are off …. is he going to get violent? And this is LOUIS C.K.! Louis C.K. is making the bald man cry right in front of us! Holy shit! What will this mean to my career? He has a lot of power … what about all the connections I could have through him? But this is so fucked up … and ohmygod it’s still happening …

The women said they held on to each other and laughed loudly until you finished. Then they ran.

Apparently, you later tried to apologize to some of the women you, uh, churned your own butter in front of. So, yes, you are smart enough to know that it was sick. You’re also smart enough to know that your success was the only reason you could get away with it. Did you think those women felt lucky to see your cock because you were famous? Because that same behavior by someone un-famous would be gross and weird.

Newsflash: It’s still gross and weird, even if you’re famous. And then it might be even worse, because you’re using your power as leverage against these women.

And I know—we all know—that YOU SO KNOW what you were doing because of this routine about how men are the biggest threat to women. I have quoted this so many times. I thought you got it. This bit was smart and funny. Now it just makes me sad.

So … fuuuuuuck, Louis. I hate to say it, but therapy isn’t going to cut it. Apologies aren’t going to cut it. In our imaginary relationship, I now have to face the fact that there’s something inherently wrong with you. Something dark and nasty and sick.

We’re over, Louis. Over.