Every songwriter has their own process. When you’re a douchebag and a new famewhore, you blast your creative process out on your blog. If you’re John Mayer you go a step further and you file it under the guise of the esoteric when in reality, it’s not so much the expression of art but rather the exploitation of it. The “songwriter’s” equivalent of Hollywood Ebola Paris Hilton’s courting of the paparazzi.

So John found himself at the airport the other day unable to escape the constant artistry banging around his head. Musing on love, he jotted down a few lyrics and decided to share them with the gossip public, insisting that there was no deeper meaning to his words, warning that they should not be taken on a “personal level”.

Dear Ex Lover,

Perhaps you didn"t understand the last time I told you to stop contacting me, so I"ll do my best to spell it out for you. I do not wish to have you in my life anymore.

I don"t know how much more clear I can be about it. It would serve you best to move on with your life and find someone who can put up with you, because I"m done trying.

I hope this is enough closure for you.

Goodbye.

P.S. If you need me, you know how to find me.

Everyone and their eyebrow stylist is interpreting this as a giant f*ck you to Jessica Simpson. I on the other hand think it’s the reverse. She is happy. She is now almost engaged to the first son of Texas football Tony Romo. John on the other hand supposedly keeps trying to bootycall her ass. Earlier this week he awkwardly came face to face with Tony at the Cosmopolitan Fun Fearless Male Awards, where Tony reportedly kept his cool with the kind of confidence only a high school quarterback could throw around in a room full of perceivably lesser men.

For an insecure, acne-battling neurotic like John, it had to be a ballshrinking experience. Compounded by the fact that his bit titted, blonde ex trophy is now getting nailed by a rich professional athlete, for John it was probably like grade 9 all over again. Standing in the locker room with a limp dick that wouldn’t inspire some limp dick lyrics for another decade, always, always, in spite of any success, completely burdened by the inadequacies shuffling around his mind.

As such, the only way to retort is through his “music”. By transferring her rejection and disseminating it across the internets, this is how a weasel seeks revenge. Revenge of the Douchbag. Pure class.

Attached – John bonding with the paps last night and exchanging jock itch powder. For real.

Photos from Wenn.com