On October 6th, 2004, I posted a meme in my Livejournal, asking people to break up with me. In return, I would break up with them. These are the breakup letters I'm most proud of:
This may be the wrong time for a blender. Too soon for the microwave and cappuccino machine, as well. I think if we call Wal-Mart now, and let them know that the wedding is off, all our relatives will be able to return our wedding gifts for a refund.
I'm truly sorry things didn't work out between us. Maybe next time you'll remember there is no u in matrimony, though there is a y and an o, but without the u, those letters spell yo; as in yo, Chris, I can't believe you cheated on me with Dick Cheney. You're so dumped.
You're right. It isn't me. It is you.
It's the way you crush entire cans of Pringles, and scatter the crumbs on my waterbed. It's the way you melt candles into my ear while I sleep. It's the way you always drink all the Sunny D, leaving me with a fridge full of OJ and Purple Stuff.
I can't take the way you mispronounce my name. It's not Bitchtits Macfuckyourself, it's Trent. They don't sound anything alike. I don't want to even get into the names you call me in bed. Who can keep track?
I'm sorry you never loved me enough to make eye contact. It's over.
I should have left you at hello. When you told me you wanted to plug me in like an improper fraction in an equation, I hoped you were merely being derivative. But the day I came home to find you'd screamed the glass out of my windows, I shuddered.
I'm not sorry. Somehow I knew you'd lick the creme out of my Oreos and replace it with strychnine. I had the feeling that when you offered to make me breakfast in bed, you'd intended to grind my up into sausages while I slept.
It's over Enola Rayne. I can't be with someone who can't kill me with kindness or a cutting remark. Call me the next time you're in Big City. We'll have coffee over for dinner, and spill beans across the desert that's formed between us, waiting for a stalk to rise to the sky.
Is that all I was to you? A Bea Arthur substitute?
Fine, you can have your Ben & Jerry. You always did have a thing for hippies with corporate expense accounts and an infinite amount of Chubby Hubby ice cream.
But while you're up there waiting for the license for a polyamorous civil union, I'll be laying out on a chaise lounge with Tom & Jerry. Tom, who scratched my back while you were guffawing at Rose's St. Olaf stories, and Jerry who starring in those American Express commercials way back when you were nothing but a tadpole in a whale's jumpsuit.
Goodbye Joshua, may your right hand twist around your heart, and your sweet sweet blood drip on to the cold tundra and disappear like a Branch Dividian's faith at the No Longer Pearly Gates. You were never Gallileo. You weren't even Mr. Wizard.
Last night, I thought of you while I was raking the house of leaves into a pile big enough for a bonfire. I'm burning all the love notes you forgot to write me. I hope their smoke will reach your nose as you inhale the cologne of your next lover. The smell will remind you of the barbequed potato chips I used to sneak out in the middle of the night to buy you when you were depressed. You'll cry. A tear will slip down your cheek, and solidify to at the touch of your marble floor. Over the years, the rotation of the Earth, and its changing orbit will lead the tear back to me. On the day it rolls from beneath my leather baggage, I'll accidentally crush it like an amethyst egg beneath my Hush Puppies, and release the sound your voice makes when he kisses you. I'll sigh without knowing quite why, and then go about my business.
Tonight, much to my dismay, I realized I am biassexual. I can love everyone except you. This may have something to do with all the times you've forwarded GW Bush's calls to my voicemail, or it could be the way you make like your flipping your hair when you're angry, even though you're as bald as Mr. Bigglesworth's baby after chemotherapy.
Whatever the reason, I can't get past it anymore. It's an SUV parked sideways in the middle of a highway.
You can call me if you ever find yourself with a quarter and no one to call. Just don't expect me to pick up.
I regret to inform you that upon reading your letter, I seem to have accidentally run over Ethyl with the lawn mower a few dozen times. Hildegard is mourning the loss by pissing in all of your fetish boots.
I wish I could say I was surprised by your sudden descent into BDSM, but I knew from the moment you asked me to puncture your cornea with a needle full of boric acid, that our love would be the Gigli of gay marriages.
I wish you the best of luck in your future career as a duct tape repairman.
--I see fandom
That isn't a dress I'm wearing, it's a garbage bag. It's raining outside and you jacked my raincoat.
Maybe we weren't meant to be together. You were always stealing zucchini out of my crisper to do God Knows What, and I haven't been able to find my furby since you discovered that he vibrated when he laughed.
Look, you're a nice girl (by which I mean fat) with a great personality (ugly as a bulldog with burn scars), and I'm sure you'll find someone who is right for you (if you start hanging out with coma patients). I just hope that after all this, we can still be friends (please don't ever call or e-mail me again).
Canth, you ignorant slut,
The word you were looking for isn't wimp, it's pussy. As in canthlian is such a pussy, every three weeks he has to stick tampons up his nose to keep from bleeding on his shirts.
How dare you imply that I don't have the world's largest cock. You can see my phallus from space, bizznatch. I would tell you to fuck off and die, but that would entail you getting laid again, and I don't think anyone else should have to suffer through the shitdick that sex with you entails. (Yea, I used entails twice motherfucker, you want to make something of it? I'll skewer your entrails, if you get what that entails.)
Off and die,
--do me I fanse
p.s. Can I have your new boyfriend's number after you off yourself?
Somewhere beyond the prosaic desserts of Key Lime and Waterlemon Meringue, inbetween the Molehill Mountains and Buttermilk Sea, is a practically fractally challenged diva with test pattern vision and a plexiglass heart.
She is of no consequence to you.
You who would batter pancakes like mouthy wives, and hide your ample sausage in the freezers of bisexual women. You are a washcloth. You are an ampersand.
When The Mango Princess went pregnant with pauses, you swallowed her down like an "I love you."
I can't be with a man who swallows I love you hoarse pills but would proudly change me into Regie Cabico. How can I love a man with a fetish for diapers and burning firewood children for a mere spark of inspiration? How? I can not. I can not love a man who cracks jokes like Formica and pisses on the rugs of prematurely balding furries.
If I can not love you I must curse you. An inch of snow for every bunny-suited giggle. An uncomfortable couch for every frantic waving of hands. For your propensity for verbose moroscosity, I sentence you to four weeks of winter with an unplugged refrigerator full of cheese and only an unlucky dragon for company.
Is it not common knowledge that Goulash the Great climbed down from his pumpking patch hideaway and showered golden poetastiness on the formaldehidden corpse of Coyote the Bear? And when Coyote the Bear eased into the hot springs and made to steal Goulash's newspaper and picnic basket, did he not run thirty-seven miles to the nearest coffeeeshop where he stopped for a nice cup of chameleon tea? Lo, we shall never know for sure.
But it iswritten that Goulash, upon hearing your name, dropped trou like a charcoal briskette, and said unto thee, “pthththththththththth.”
You think you can stoat your way into my bedroom with your electrolyte play and French Fry manicured toenails? Well, pishaw to you, fruity. You were never the Tidus of my Final Fantasy XXX.
You're a pimple where genitalia should be, a troll on a bulletin board. When I woke up, after a night of huffing swampgas and kickboxing with sasquatches, I understood why people waterproof witticisms and bury ostriches upside down in sanddunes. You're biscotti in a breadbasket, an unavailable number on CallerID.
You fucken pussy-licking, dildo breathed, shit stain. How dare you think you could break up with me. Do you know who I am?
I'm the Simon to your Garfunkle. The Garfield to your Odie. The Odin to your raven. The rave to your hokey pokey.
Did you really think I would shatter like a Faberge egg on a concrete patio just because you decided my cock and vocabulary were too much for you? Well I'm made of stronger stuff. I am asphalt wrapped in Laffy Taffy with an admantium shell.
You couldn't dump me if you had a million friends. My ego is too heavy for you to even lift you pansy-assed, narcissistic, unfocused eyed scientist! Trying to back out of this relationship now will slowly kill you. The long nights crying into your bedpan wondering why you ever gave up someone who could make you come just by whispering your name in someone else's ear. The endless days masturbating to the last grocery list I madeout and ordered you to go shopping for. You'd miss me like you were a pie wielding liberal, and I was Ann Coultier.
Can't you see? I'm trying to save you from a life spent wishing you had just shut up and let me fuck you. So ziplock your windbag shut and bend over.