Dear You Know Who You Are,
How could you?! I'm not certain, yet, if you did, but if you did, how could you?! Just thinking about it makes me want to cut the tails off of a multitude of salamanders with a dull knife autographed by Jim Bowie. After all we've been through, I just can't believe you forgot my name in the middle of a letter you were actually writing to me. Brad. My name is Brad. B-R-A-D. Short for Bradley. Who is Marvin? Where's my rotisserie chicken? And who in the name of all that is beautiful and good ordered the veal cutlet? This sick relationship has got to stop. Stop sending all the bills for the plastic surgery back to me and just pay them or I'm going to be really mad. And you ain't never seen mad like the mad I got for you. Every weekend I took you to McDonalds and this is the thanks I get. Well you have some nerve MISTER! Of all the things, of all the #&%*#^ times I covered up for you. Remember the time you were totally wasted and rented that motel room with two other sluts? And how the three of you played scrabble and pictionary for a week!? And remember that time I drove you, your mom, two aunts and three sisters in my Geo Metro to all get matching haircuts? Seven weird 'dos - any idea how expensive that was?
All for what? For sheer love - a concept I now realize you know nothing of.
Well, tell you what, buster, you can just blow off and get your great moments in porn elsewhere, because this ho has had enough.
Fed up forever,
B-R-A-D, your former B-R-I-D-E