Write "Dear ______, it's not you, it's me." And continue.
Dear Attractive Man from the Gym (Whose Name, I'm Fairly Certain, is Gary),
It’s not you. It’s me. Look… I know the things I leave on your doorstep get thrown out the next day. I’ve seen them there, when I look through your garbage. I always hoped I’d find just one decent piece of clothing, or maybe a discarded perfume bottle that still held the ghost of your wind. Just a small whiff… I could cherish it forever. I know you see my car from the way you have gotten quite artful at dodging me as we wind through traffic towards your yoga class Tuesday nights. You must be taking defensive driving classes. It used to make me want you all the more. Unfortunately, I was sitting behind you at the movies the other week, and I distinctly heard you pass gas. That is one boat that I do not want to sail away on. There was even someone sitting right beside you. You didn’t even look embarrassed. You didn’t even turn to say a meek, “Oh, excuse me!” Nothing. You just kept eating your nachos. Now that I think of it - who gets nachos at the theater, anyway? Why not just go to Taco Bell or something? Then you can pass gas in the privacy of your own home – or your car, if you can’t wait that long to let it rip. Anyway. It’s been swell, our saucy little tango of cat-and-mouse… But I don’t quite feel the same way about you any longer. My apologies.
The one who has been in your rearview for the past eight months,
Woman with the floral-patterned silk scarf, and sunglasses.
Dear Writer's Block,
It's not you. It's me. I've grown weary of sitting in inspiring places, pen poised above pad, the silence in my head so deep you could hear a pin drop. I'd rather the pen dropped. I've grown weary of reading page after page of prose by other people, hoping to be enlightened, to garner some hazy inkling of an idea from the stark black ink of their words. I've grown to be weary of flashcards of adjectives, nouns, verbs, adverbs; I've grown tired of the post-its stickied around the house - "think of the vicissitude of the pupils when entralled," or "the veil of Isis above a coffer." They all have failed me. I have failed me. I fail to yield any remarkable segue into the realm of my third eye, I fail to yeild any work. I just think of you. You see how this could become a problem. I, then, have vowed to take my leave of you, to walk the other way. I haven't the patience for you, the talent for the depression, to savor the moments of wordlessness. I am simply meant to crank out letters. I'm sorry. I wish we could have worked this out in some way that would not involve our estrangement.
But I guess we both know that's already happened.
With nostalgic reticence,
She of the clacking typewriter.
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