Saturday October 1st, 2005

Dear Piece of Shit,

I had an awful dream about you last night, which has prompted me to tell you this.

Last summer when I confronted you about cheating on me, I became a towering inferno of rage and disbelief which quickly turned into tears of sadness and disappointment.

When you left the house, I read every single letter you and Nancy exchanged while you and I were not only together, but about to share our 2 year anniversary.

When I had reached my bullshit quota, I turned off the computer, went to the bathroom and looked at the disgusting, slimy, poop smeared, crusty toilet. The back of the toilet was all sweaty from the heat of the summer and from behind I could see the squashed body parts of month old bug carcasses that had never been cleaned up. The bathroom was your job - remember? I could feel the chunks of my breakfast start to rise in my throat. It began to burn from the pot of black coffee I had been drinking earlier.

I lifted the toilet seat, positioned myself correctly, and waited to barf. While I waited, I began to examine the underside of the toilet seat. "Disgusting bastard," I thought. You had always pissed in a careless manner. Aimlessly disposing of your smelly excretions, oblivious to the fact that it was splattering on, around, and even out of the toilet. You did everything but actually get the piss in the bowl. Over time, I noticed, most of it had dried up and crusted onto the porcelain. It had turned brown and was flaking off. "You were always a filthy, godless son of a bitch, weren't you?" I muttered to myself.

I noticed that the urge to vomit was replaced by an overwhelming urge to clean. But with what? I glanced around the bathroom, searching for the nearest abrasive-like tool. Something -- anything -- to teach that nasty toilet a lesson. And there it was.

Your mother fucking toothbrush.

p.s. You're still using that thing.