Dear Susan,
I am writing to you out of maturity and waning patience. Our break up no doubt was a difficult one. Through online meditations downloadable through real player, I have mustered the personal strength to make it through each day, minute by minute. I now have the ability to take out the trash without crying (I begrudgingly admit that I thought the sanitation engineer that passed by the house last week was you, it was not). However, and I would think you would reflect stronger character, a precious item of mine has gone missing; the object to the right is almost a perfect copy.
Since we dated for nearly seven (unlucky number, coincidence?) months you have come to know a lot about my personal habits, this includes my diet. I am a fan of soups, chowders, and bisques and I have never pretended otherwise. My teeth, being quite brittle from a birth defect; hot liquids have become my choice when taking a meal at home or out and about town. You found this to be quite a novelty when we started dating but later, around the fourth month or so, it began to bother you. I never took my personal frustrations out on any of your idiosyncrasies, which range beyond that of the normal human being. You made a bowel movement at least twelves times a day. You always finished the pickles three hours after being purchased, and you also made a whistling sound everytime you moved your body. When I aksed you what was wrong, you replied that you had hollow bones like a swallow. I did not find it funny, considering that in any way you look at it, your were trying to find a way to insult my intelligence and general knowledge of ornithology. I digress, but I now bring myself back to the mission at hand, my soup ladle. I want it back. That priceless personal item was a gift to me from my Grandfather Earl, the one who lived just outside of Nashville. He too suffered from the arduous disease that I endure daily and when I graduated from St. Augustine Country Day, he gave it to me as a graduation gift. It is sterling silver and is engraved with, "Where stomach acid knows no bounds." A joke we used to share together to make our meek teeth seem like a petty issue compared to the food that is eviscerated by stomach acids the moment the "chewing" is over and the more profound act of swallowing takes place (insert "BJ" joke, I am well aware of your Beavispark and Southbutthead humor).
I imagine you with your new roommates. Your general dissapointing apathy towards the world in general, and your sickening loyalty to your DVD collection of Sex and the City. Within this new home of yours you probably collect the things that were too painful for me to keep in the house. I have made a list:
1.) Charleston Chew
2.)Peanut Brittle
3.) Jawbreakers
4.)Honey in general
5.) Rolos
6.)Apples
7.)Deep fried Ice-cream (not because of my teeth, my plague of obesity)
8.)Anything covered in plastic that you now bite off with your teeth (i.e. Condom wrappers)
9.)Jerky of any kind
10.)Any sort of club mouth-lighting that adds a blue ambiance to any clubs you may frequent
I could keep going, but the pain is building inside me as we speak. I am prepared to take you to court for my LADLE. I am also as we speak, multi-tasking. Since God took away my ability to chew, he gave me the gift of ambidexterity to help cope with this shithole, planet EARTH. The police report will be delivered if I am not given the LADLE in the next two days. Expect the Men in Blue at any point of your day. How embarassing it would be for you to have them show up at your salon and drag you out in cuffs. If this doesn't work, in court I will ensure that I extract enough money from you to buy an entire arsenal of LADLES and other scooping instruments that no matter how many bitch girlfriends I go through, I will never have to deal with the agony that I am facing at this moment. Unable to LADLE my sweet potato bisque, I had to pick up in the pot that I had let simmer for several hours, adding all the ingredients to taste. When I picked up the pot, the metal seared my skin and I screamed, throwing the pot across the room. This did the following, it burned my forearms first and foremost, looking as though I have incurred the stigmata. The wasted sweet potato bisque went all over the Persian rug, which I now intend to replace by billing you, and last and certainly not least, our cat, correction, my cat, recieved the side of the pot to his right leg, which is now in a cast. If purple wasn't insecure enough with his shorter than average tail and susceptibility to open sores, this will be the icing on the cake! With all this anger, while taking out the trash, the tenants in the apartment above, two Japanese exchange students over at the Polytechnical institute happened to be playing their music a fraction too loud. Instead of being the usual nice guy, I made some rather unclever remarks which I would not like to repeat. My insulting someone based on their music taste is not something I am proud of. I simply do not hate the Boris, the punk band as much as I claimed to this afternoon, I also had in possession a mango which I was debating whether to throw out or not. And throw I did. I pitched the thing right at Haruki's head and broke his glasses. I will be sending you that bill from Lenscrafters in addition to the vet charges.
I hope this evidence is suffice to make you return my LADLE. I implore you to do so in the requested time, and to reply to your expected rebuttal, I will not buy a new one. I am a man of pride and that LADLE belongs in my hands, and submerged in the next soup I intend to make. I plan to celebrate its return with a nice Lobster Bisque, with extra cream because I deserve some sort of pat on the back for not coming to your house, punching you in the throat and acting out with vigilante justice.
Return what gives me life. If you do not, expect the true and just might of the law to come down on you like nails falling from the scaffolding of a new midtown highrise.
I still love you,.
Gareth
Ga(y)reth,
Srry it took me so long to write back to u. Didn't take ur ladle. underneath the sink. kept falling from the hook, clanging such a pain in the ass. Sorry bout the kat, have a new boyfriend now, don't come over, wouldn't want u billing moi for the l'hopital! Good luck with everything
kiss and hug,
Susan
Sent from Susan Crescendo's Blackberry AT&T
