Dear John letter

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<option> but another officer as it the door - I'll write more in an hour</option>
 
<option> but another officer as it the door - I'll write more in an hour</option>
 
<option> but if the writing's a but shakey that's only because of my helpless, loud and hysterical laughter</option>
 
<option> but if the writing's a but shakey that's only because of my helpless, loud and hysterical laughter</option>
<option> but as a bisexual, I'm interested in only two kinds of people &mdash; and quite frankly, you don't fit into either category
+
<option> but as a bisexual, I'm interested in only two kinds of people &mdash; and quite frankly, you don't fit into either category</option>
 
</choose>. I just need <choose>
 
</choose>. I just need <choose>
 
<option>more [[men]], on some kind of rotating schedule</option>
 
<option>more [[men]], on some kind of rotating schedule</option>
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<option>a bit of a laugh</option>
 
<option>a bit of a laugh</option>
 
<option>to kick you while you're down, before the snooker comes on the telly</option>
 
<option>to kick you while you're down, before the snooker comes on the telly</option>
<option>to find someone who is male and breathes - and quickly</option>
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<option>to find someone who is male and breathes &mdash; and quickly</option>
 
</choose>.
 
</choose>.
   

Revision as of 17:54, December 7, 2006

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Saturday, February 28, 2015

Dear Ex-Friend with Benefits,

By the time you read this, I'll be living in your house and drinking your coffee. I'm sorry for leaving you this way, but I'm not getting any younger, and you're not getting any richer.

I know this might seem like a bit of a shock to you, seeing as we made all those plans to continue grossing out teens and old people with our cherished "skinny dip and snogging" expeditions to the fountain in the public square, but I just don't see things working out that way.

I'm sorry about this — mostly. I just need more time alone. No... More time away from you. All of it, really. Yeah. That's what I mean to say.

I want to tell you that I think you're not the worst lover I ever had, but that would be a bald-faced lie, but I don't think we're right for each other. First of all, we're not really compatible. You're committed, literally, and I'm a schoolgirl. You like navel lint collecting, peeling watermelons, and writing love letters to Bob Saget, 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 in another life — preferably a previous one. But I want you to know that I'll think of you whenever I want to remember what suffering feels like.

I'd really like us to become "born-again strangers", if that's okay with you. I think we can do it. We had some good times, five past seven on Sunday November 3rd 2003 springs to mind, for instance.

Take care of yourself and never forget your psychiatrist thinks you're a jerk too.

~ Yet Another Anonymous Sex Partner.

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