Dear Chong:

Although I always believed that I wanted to be with a man who has a huge fever blister on his lip - I was wrong (hey that rhymes with Chong - what a coincidence)

The fact that you’re a raging alcoholic, although arousing - makes me
afraid that your love of the sauce will somehow tarnish your love for me. How can I possibly compete with a shot of Citron?

And while I love our conversations about your dream of being a grocery store clerk - I am somehow nervous that your career would compete with our time together - after all cash registering can be a tricky and time-consuming job.

I am suffering that I will no longer be able to partake in your generosity from your willingness to buy a drink for a thirsty waiter or your love of Gucci and silver and Dolce and Gabanna and the Mercedes emblem you wear around your neck. I always believed I would have someone to buy me boobs.

But alas, I must leave. All of this is too much.

The talkless nights, the bad sex, the drunken sentiments of love, your clubba ways, your depth like deep pools in a thimble.

Oh my love - farewell.

-N

P.S. Please give my love to N** and N**. Wish them well. And say hi to T**, the slut in M** and your unborn child - oh and your parole officer. They will be missed.

**Names have been changed to protect the almost innocent