On Mon, 1/12/09, Paul Harrison <email@example.com> wrote:
Dear Reason Why I Drink,
It is after some deliberation that I send you this letter.
The truth is, I just can’t go on anymore with our relationship. It’s become a burden to maintain. Your mood swings are extremely taxing and as a result, I find that I’m more worried about other things, not you. And right now, my interior decorating business requires all my attention. But as you sit and wallow in the self-induced misery that IS your life, you can’t see anything that isn’t all about you.
You’re a selfish bitch, you know that Jane? For the past three weeks, I’ve questioned why I ever got involved with you. I guess I felt sorry for you. But I soon learned to resent the hell out of you. You’re so needy; demanding that I constantly give you my undivided attention.
I wasted so much time staying involved with you. I regret it more than you know. I have no choice but to leave. I suppose I owe you an explanation. OK–here goes:
You’re moody, incapable of being happy. You drink too much and your dependence on pills has rendered you ineffective as a woman, certainly as a partner. You and I actually “sleep” together–in the strictest sense of the word. I never wanted a roommate. I needed more. Much more.
Like a woman who actually bathed would’ve been nice!
Your constant body odor is only surpassed by the vile scent of your desperation. In addition to that, I can’t stand your ignorance. What did you do during your four years at Vassar? Wait! Don’t answer that. I have a feeling it involved copious amounts of pizza, anti-depressants and corn pads. I shudder when I think about how much of your Daddy’s money wasted your Daddy’s money. Nothing took. You have no common sense either and your inability to grasp even the easiest of concepts, boggles my mind. I remember being horrified when you told everyone at the Kramer’s dinner party that you actually thought the word “bidet” was a greeting in Australia!!!! When I combine your idiocy with your lack of personal hygiene, I realize that I cannot get out of this relationship fast enough!
It’s stuff like this that made it impossible for me to love you. I tried. God knows I tried, but it was futile.
So, it’s over. Face it; deal with it. Please don’t try to contact me or make any sweeping gestures that ultimately, we’ll both regret. I’m angry Jane and the sad reality is, I can’t stand you! The thought of being in the same room with you galls me.
I shudder when I think we once thought about having a life together and that we actually considered starting a family. Well, to be honest, I knew that would never happen, mainly because you’re such a shrew, there ‘d be a good chance you’d eat your young!
I even had a nightmare about it one night. I dreamed we had a family and one night, I walked into the nursery and you were huddling over something in the corner. You had a furry, gray body and you were ugly as hell with these little round ears, big whiskers, a long tail and tiny red eyes and when you turned around at look at me, you were taking a bite out of a doll’s head. See what I’m talking about here? You’re not even that smart as a rodent!
So Jane, I’m giving you fair warning: after you receive this letter, leave me alone. No tricks, no phone calls, no e-mails. NO CONTACT whatsoever. I’ve been practicing signing my signature just to see how it’ll look on a restraining order.
Lastly, sex. What a joke! Wanna know what sex was like with you? Here’s an analogy you might understand: picture me on a nice sized bicycle riding along the center line of the huge Lincoln Tunnel….in a snowstorm.
Well, there you go!
Good riddance, Loser!!!
On Tues, 1/13/09, Jane Creedmont <firstname.lastname@example.org> wrote:
I read your “Dear Jane” letter.
Oh really, Paul? Oh really???
Well, let me begin my rebuttal with this proclamation: You are a waste of your father’s ejaculate and you have the mental and emotional prowess of a calcified, parasitic cyst!
But not entirely clueless as most cysts go.
I have to say you’re right about one thing– our life together wasn’t easy. I know there were times when I was a bitch, but guess what? You made me that way. You made me nuts!! You are an obsessive compulsive idiot. You always had to have each towel hang at the same length. In the pantry, all the canned goods had to face the same way. In your closet, suits were grouped together by color and then alphabetized by designer!! You are so damn anal!! So much so that you couldn’t just sit in a chair…you became one with a chair. I don’t know how many times I’d watch in horror as you’d stand up from sitting in a chair and the cushion would be half way up your ass.
You were always such a stickler for things that were “season appropriate”. You wouldn’t allow me to wear white after Labor Day or black after Easter. What the hell kind of rule was that? Well listen up, asshole–I cheated on you last fall. Remember you thought I was working on all those Autumn projects for the store?? Well, I wasn’t. And because you’d beaten that stupid seasonal nonsense in my head, I could only had affairs with black guys!!!!!
But you know what? I loved it!!!!!!!!!! Trust me, in this situation, you literally PALED in comparison on so many levels!!
As for your interior design company? Please!!! Placing a decorative bottle of Balsamic Vinegar on someone’s kitchen counter does not constitute “redecorating”.
You’re pathetic, Paul. You have the taste of a Vietnamese street urchin. Hugo Chavez’s last rectal exam had a better color pallet than what you presented at your last three design projects. As far as real designers go, you’re not one—not by a long shot. You wouldn’t know a Biedermeier from Oscar Meyer. You’re a fake, a fraud and a lousy lay.
Yeah, I said it. Sex with you had real pathos alright; it was both a comedy AND a tragedy! Thank God I was addicted to pills!! At least I could feel SOMETHING when I put THOSE in my mouth and furthermore, the act of sex itself with you was so anti-climatic. We’d engage in a little sheet action and to pass the time, I’d hum the Minute Waltz in my mind and YOU, ya big son-of-a-bitch, would be done with a full 30 seconds left in the damn song!!!
And your penis??? Mine is bigger—AND I don’t even have one!!!
I’m glad we’re through. You hear me? GLAD!!!!
And please, do womankind a favor and FINALLY go completely gay. But when you do, you lazy schmuck, keep in mind that that’ll be one situation in which you won’t be able to do anything half-assed!
You are the king of all dipshits,