Dear John letter

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Wednesday, April 1, 2026

Dear Sex toy,

By the time you read this, I'll be heading towards Mordor in a suicide attempt to throw the One Ring into the fires of Mount Doom. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but one of us has to go, and the strychnine I've been adding to your Corn Flakes doesn't seem to be working.

I know this might seem like a sudden turn of events to you, seeing as we made all those plans to terrorize the elderly couple that lives down the road, but I just don't see things working out that way.

I'm sorry about this — I think. I just need to plot your murder for another week and I'm set to go.

I want to tell you that I think you are composed mainly of various carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen, phosphorus, iron, copper, magnesium, sulfur, calcium, potassium, iodine, sodium and silicon compounds (well, duh...), but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You are the latest addition to my evergrowing list of people I'm planning to kill, and I am a champion pie eating finalist. You like bothering foraging bears, peeling watermelons, and nibbling off wires to public computers at libraries and Internet cafés, and I'm just not sure I can ever share your joy in those things. How can two people so different ever make it for the long haul? I think we should date again, but only if we're re-incarnated into each other's bodies and I get to be "you" next time. Oh yes. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I'm solving a crossword and have to come up with a synonym for the word "stupid".

I'd really like us to become old without ever speaking to, or thinking of, each other ever again, if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, before you decided to become yourself and get to be so much of a stuck-up prig.

Take care of yourself and never forget that I still have your diary and can at any time mail the most embarrassing parts (like the chapter about the summer of -04) of it to The New York Times.

Ceterum censeo Carthaginem esse delendam,

~ That old woman next door.