A Dear John Letter: A Unique Example
I remember when I first saw you. You walked into my life like some deodorant model, smelling like one giant sport stick of love. Now, I think of that image, and my first impulse is to stick my head in the toilet drink the water. Then I want to flush the toilet. Then I want somebody to put a gun to the back of my head and blow my brains out in the toilet. Then I want somebody to drop a nuclear bomb on my house so that every last one of my molecules is obliterated and it would be impossible for one of your molecules to be touching one of my molecules. Are you catching on that I don't like you anymore? Probably not, so I'll keep going. You're dense, like one of those thick, itchy sweaters.
I want to talk about your career aspirations, your habits, your lovemaking, but let's talk about your car for one second. When a car wreaks of Old Spice, vomit, potato chips, and Chanel No. 5, a woman with average common sense should know that something slightly disturbing has probably happened there. Frankly, I discounted the Old Spice because I figured you had just imprinted yourself on the driver's seat. Little did I know you had been vigorously rubbing yourself on it. Still, vomit, potato chips, and Chanel No. 5 are not a good combination. Let's just ignore that you don't clean your car. I should have known better to get into a 1982 Honda Civic that smelled this way. But these are the things women do when swoon is mixed with Roofies. Thanks for that. It's never good when just being in the vicinity of a guy requires a blood draw the next day. And a police report.
Fortunately for me, I guess, you just wanted to lick my feet while I was unconscious. I don't know why I didn't call the cops after that, but desperation will do funny things to a girl. Besides, my bunions were moist and shiny and usually that takes a thirty-minute drive to the podiatrist and about $100. I know better now. Imagine my surprise when the feet-licking turned out to be the pinnacle of our love-making. You make love like a jackhammer that's just run out of power. I'm not kidding. I once operated a jackhammer when somebody pulled the plug on it and it thumped hard for a couple of seconds and then died. And what was that sound you made when you were done? It was liked somebody ripped the tail of a kitten. It's the kind of experience that makes a woman want to give up sex and have her woman parts sealed closed with molten lead.
I guess I should have realized that our future was bleak when you explained that your intellectual pursuits didn't extend past waiting for the next version of "Call of Duty" to come out. Frankly, I thought you were just joking when you said you were going to become a professional "Call of Duty" player, but then you started spending every waking hour playing that stupid thing. I actually kept track of your verbalizations one week and discovered that you said more to your AI teammates than you said to me.Then again, your ability to verbalize anything even mildly intelligent is so incredibly limited, I should probably be thankful.
Remember when I asked you about the last book you read and you laughed as if reading a book was like catching a nasty disease. Of course, I thought you were joking. I was smitten, or so I thought. Really, I was drugged. I guy should have at least one book in his house that isn't a "Best of Playboy" compilation.
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Finally, here are a few things you should learn before subjecting another woman to the spectacle that is you: McDonalds and porn does not constitute a "nice date", setting things on fire is not "as fun as it gets", don't call people stupid when you spell stupid "stoopid", referring to most women as either "whores" or "bitches" and then laughing and saying "just joking" is actually more disturbing than just constantly using those derogatory terms sincerely, and the word "derogatory" means negative. It's not the place in "Lord of the Rings" where the Orcs go to the bathroom.
If you haven't figured this out, I don't want to go out with you anymore. I don't want to see you anymore. I don't want to hear your name. I don't care whether you live or die. Please stop calling me and telling me that you're "sportin' wood". That information is so far from the type of information I'm interested in it's unfathomable. If your next girlfriend stabs you in the face with a pencil and in your agony and desperation for help you think to give me a call, please feel free. I'll be sure to laugh while you bleed to death or collapse as you get lead poisoning. And no, I'm not going to feel differently in a week or month. Don't send me a Christmas card. If you can avoid coming within ten miles of my house, please try.
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