So, this is the letter where I tell you that I’m leaving you. Try not to get enraged and stop reading. I want you to keep reading. You do remember how to read, right?
Here’s the thing, everyone says I still love you, and I guess I do. Love is this squishy feeling, like I just stepped in something, like every step I take I will be stepping in something, and it’s kind of terrifying because I don’t really know what it is, except every step I take, there’s something that surprises me. That’s love, right? Well, if that is love, then I love you.
Except, I’m also, actually stepping in things. Squishy things. Despite six months of constant effort against your instincts, you are still not housebroken. The peeing isn’t so bad, because I just pretend I have a renter with a massive, scary dog, and I’m trying to get rid of him. What’s worse than that is the blood everywhere. I have become the world’s leading expert on getting blood out of carpets, curtains, furniture, and clothes. The bodies you’re bringing home, half-chewed, should, at the very least, go into the fridge.