Dear Sharon,

Hey babe. This whole situation is a little awkward, so I decided to write you this letter. I felt it would be easier for me to really get out all my feelings without anyone saying something that they would really regret. I don’t want us to hold any grudges.

The truth is, I met someone. Her name is BoQueefa. We met at Borders in Santa Monica. She was in the cafe reading The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand with chai tea coming out of her nose because she couldn’t stop laughing. I noticed her from the magazine rack where I was catching up on last month’s issue of Tits and Machete Magazine.  I heard that bird song of a snort, and I knew it. We were in love. And I’m pretty sure it’s the real deal. We’ve got this deep bond. Like we knew each other in a past life or something. Possibly as a pair of gay Spanish conquistadors, sneaking away from the judgmental eyes of our Capitán in the twilight hour to have explosive anal sex below deck. I mean, I’ve never felt like this about anyone. I’m so sorry that it had to happen this way. You know that I never wanted to hurt you.  That was never my intention. But I don’t think either of us can be too surprised that something like this happened. I mean, honestly, if you’d have opened you’re fucking eyes and looked around, you would have seen this coming. We don’t have anything in common. Things just haven’t been connecting – particularly our genitalia. You’re always on your period and acting like a cunt. And you know how you thought my inability to maintain an erection was because I was secretly gay? No, It’s because you’ve gained like 3o lbs since we started dating and you look like a dumpy bag of trash.

But I don’t want you to think this is because of you. I’ve got no hard feelings. In the long run, I will always look back on our relationship with the warmest of feelings and fondest of memories. Man, we sure did have some good times. Remember that time that we went to your Unlce Ron’s house in the barrio and got so lit on candy corn and sake that we covered my dick in maple syrup and tried to find the nearest ant bed? Maybe, in another time and in another place, we could give it another shot. Maybe even in a couple weeks after things fizzle out with BoQueefa, me and you could meet up for lattes and do it in the bathroom of the Coffee Bean. Get some of that thick cream in your coffee, if you know what I mean, and I think that you do.  I’ve realized that breaking up with you, earlier in this letter, was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made in my life. And since I wrote all that a few minutes ago, I’ve really grown a lot and had some time to think about who I am and what I really want in this short period of time we get on this planet. And it just hit me,  it’s me and you, Sharon. That’s all that matters and I see that now.

That whole thing with BoQueefa could have never worked. She didn’t know the real me, not like you do, and it was like I was always trying to live up to some impossible standard with her. We were from two different worlds. Me, a hardened ex-weed slanger from the ghettos of East Atlanta with a gimpy leg and male-pattern baldness, and her, a suburban beauty queen born with a silver spoon in her mouth and pair of tits like two Beauty Rest body pillows. Plus, she said I was ill-equipped to satisfy her primal sexual needs. She really is an animal in the sack. I’m begging you Sharon, you’ve got to take me back. I’ve been a mess ever since earlier in this letter, when I called you a cunt. I didn’t mean that. I was just reacting out of fear. Fear of losing the one thing in this shit life that makes me happier than my gay cousin, Topher, at a Britney Spears concert.  Please, baby. I’ll do anything. I swear to god Sharon, if I can’t be with you then I’ve got no reason to live. I’m not fucking around this time, Sharon. If you don’t take me back, and I mean right now, I will end it. I will eat 15 beans of sexctasy, go Merengue dancing, meet a lovely Puerto Rican sensation named Antonio, take him back to my villa on the coast, make the hardest, spiciest of sex with him, and pass out. And all without ever taking a sip of water. Is that what you want? Do you want me to de-hydrate and die? Like a shriveled worm on a sidewalk?! Do you?! Heartless bitch.

Love,

Pudding Dickenson