You must think I'm an idiot. You must believe, in your minuscule dehydrated heart, that I have no intuition, intelligence, or most importantly, sense of humor. For it was truly a sense of humor that enabled me to cope with the last few months of being with you.

We'd been living the perfect Gen-X breeder lifestyle, with our charming renovated apartment, and the promise we would always be together. Ahh... how sweet... until I realized the reason your sexual appetite had faded into oblivion was because (a) you were threatened by my bisexuality, and (b) you were fucking your brainless, cheerleader-esque co-workers.

Let me tell you something, chubs. The reason all those hot chicks checked me out before they even noticed your fat, pimple-covered ass is because I have an iota of class and sexiness. They could see through your pseudo punk-rock image--too bad it took me two long years to realize the truth. But I'll admit I'm to blame for some of your problems. Like that garbage-like smell that you can't seem to get out your apartment? Check in between the layers of your $500 IKEA futon for a poultry-inspired surprise.

And the night after the Liz Phair show,(which you took HER to with MY ticket), did you have to make a few mad dashes to the toilet? That could be because I dosed your Brita with Visine--the ultimate diuretic. So, piss off, buddy! The way I see it? I win for having lost you.