Dear Weasel

23 Milkweed Avenue
Pritchett, British Columbia
62705 Canada
December 15, 2009

   Dear Olivia,
         I would like to tell you that you've won, fair and square.
         Well, not really.
         I mean, in terms of what had happened over these past few months, I believe you have earned yourself a gold star. Or even a trophy for what you've achieved. Not that I'm writing in constant loathing, or anything, (and who has ever mentioned horrible things like that, anyway?) but I am writing you a letter of congratulations.
         And you ask, yourself, Olivia: why is this pathetic bloke snail-mailing me a glorious congratulations letter?
         That is a good question.
         I would have been able to slip it under the crack of the door of your apartment, but apparently, you've moved.
         I don't blame you, though. You have to admit, our upstairs neighbors have been a little...manic.
         And let me tell you this: finding your new address has not been, eh, a walk in the park. So consider this letter a congratulations note for you, and a sense of achievement for me.
         Do you know, exactly, why you've won a trophy for me? (I'm making pretty sure it's a trophy, I promise.)
         Well, for starters, I haven't been able to sleep well these past couple of months. Maybe I should change my bedsheets; they particularly carry of your stench from across the hallway, so there's that.
         Also, I bet your phone's been flooding with bloody text messages from a lot of cute, hunky guys; compared to my lonesome phone over here. I bet some of them have proposed to you, like that twat we met at the store, Richard Bradley Cecile. I bet he's all googly-eyed over you. And I would just like to say that I am not jealous; not in the slightest. Because nothing says "self confident" like walking around, sending your number to pedestrians, acting like a big shot. So there's your merit right there: more dates than me.
         I would also like to tell you that without you being here, has been the best few months of my life. I can finally watch the basketball matches I keep missing at two in the morning. I don't have to pick up after myself anymore. I can finally put the toilet seat up.
         I AM A MAN AGAIN.
         So technically, we're both winners here. Hoorah.
         The reason why I'm writing this letter (other than my self-congratulations for locating your address and that this is a congratulations to you too) is that you might need a place for your trophy. Well, I'm here to offer some suggestions.
         One, that side drawer with that lamp you can't sleep without. I know that lamp has been with you since you were a tubby baby, but it's time to let go of the past. I say toss the lamp, and put your brand new trophy on your side table, so you can kiss it goodnight for the rest of your life. And even though I know you're afraid of the dark, I say you face your fears.
         Besides, winners don't need sleep.
         Another could be a new cabinet for your brand new trophy to sit in. I suggest you use a hard wooden cabinet to put it in. Like the ones you put dead people in. That probably isn't the sole purpose for these things called "coffins," anyhow. You could dig up a grave, slide the skeleton out, maybe wash it up a little, and you have yourself a place for your beautiful trophy. I know it sounds gruesome, but we live in a tough economy, so we have to do with what we have; even a rotting corpse box. I know you can do it.
         I know how heartless you would care to be.
         And just in case you would like to launch a trophy gala in your, uh, shabby little square house, to show your friends and family your grandest achievement in life, you have my permission. I say go for it. Collect all your friends, and let them bring all of their friends. It will be a blast.
         They would get to marvel at a thing you've worked on for so long. As for invitations, I simply cannot accept. I am much too modest to declare it out loud, in front of all the people you love. That's probably why I sent this letter: to congratulate you as far away from you as I possibly could.
         You know, I've missed the times we were together, back before you became a heartless monster. We used to play together, you and I, on our instruments. But I have to admit the we are better off being solo, uh, performers. I have a music career to attend to.
         I can remember that I was practicing my guitar all those sleepless nights. Usually you come in with your keyboard and we jam a little. That was fun. But our situation now is much much better for the two of us, musically. You have opened my eyes to how horrible the keyboard is in bands, and in music, in general.
         I mean, have you ever seen a successful band WITH A KEYBOARD?
         But I digress. I really do missed those times. Not that I've missed you, per se; it's just that it was a really wonderful time for me. Back when I still had a job at the Coffee and Juice; and you were probably at home, lounging around like a brain dead weasel. But brain dead weasels aren't what you think they are. They're not stupid and heartless and they don't break up with their man at a wonderful time in their life; no.
         They're much more talented than that.
         Brain dead weasels respond well to sound. They are also agile creatures. When they hear a sound, they jump to the nearest face and tear it apart. That reminds me of a much larger, much uglier, feminine keyboard-playing creature, but let's not talk about that right now.
         We're talking about you.
         So accept it as a compliment when I compare you to a ravenous animal with permanent brain damage. They're the real heroes.
         You know what I've missed as well. Your cooking. You always seem to know your way around the kitchen. I mean, after all, you are a girl, you are supposed to stay there, but with you you are adept in your environment. Like a brain-dead weasel in the forest. (See? I told you. That metaphor works here as well.) You always seem to know what to serve and what to share with me. Well, now that we're not together, I've been eating well again. Like bean. And takeout. Much better than your lobster risotto and your spinach puffs. You have degraded a favorite vegetable of mine.
         ...
         Uh.




         Back to the trophy. When should I mail it to you? I could always airmail it; make them drop it off via airline. Preferably without a parachute. Those things are expensive. About your house, though. You may need to replace those cement shingles with galvanized iron. The trophy may land on your roof.
         So, all in all, I congratulate you with this trophy. I have to tell you that out of all the contestants, you are most deserving, and I have no hard feelings. Although you've terrorized my life for the last two years, I am a much bigger person than that, and I agree that we should put the past behind us. You monster.
         In case you have been wondering about the engraving on the trophy, I would like to keep it a surprise. You would get to see it when you hear a loud clang on your rooftop, or when you find a large crater in your front yard. You might not get to see it if under the right circumstances you would get crushed under it when it lands, but I'm sure the trophy would still be readable by then.
         I hope you keep doing what you do best; breaking peoples' hearts and seemingly caring for them. I'm counting on it. As for me, I'll try to pick myself up, and get back to my dating list. I have a blonde to meet on the 24th. I bet she won't be as great as my last girlfriend, even though she's 5'7", French, and an actress-slash-marine biologist. I'm sure she won't be such a painful crick in the neck, like my last girlfriend.
         Anyways, I wish you well on the rest of your sad, pathetic life, you brain-dead weasel. (That was a compliment.)

Forever and Always,
Stephen

PS:
         In case you do get crushed on the bottom side of your brand new trophy, I will jot down the inscription for you, here, on this glorious congratulatory note.

World's Worst Monster of a Girlfirend
(who smells)