A Dear John Letter: A Unique Example

Dear John,

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. 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.

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. 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.

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 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.

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, and the word "derogatory" means negative.

If you haven't figured this out, I don't want to go out with you anymore. 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.

Sincerely,

Sychophantastic