Dear Wife:
I'm writing you this letter to tell you
that I'm leaving you forever!
I've been a good man to you for seven
years and I have nothing to show
for it.
These last two weeks have been hell.
Your boss called to tell me that
you quit your job today and that was the
last straw.
Last week, you came home and didn't even notice that I
had a new haircut, had cooked
your favorite meal and even wore a brand
new pair of silk boxers.
You ate in two minutes, and went straight to
sleep after watching all of your soaps.
You don't tell me you love me anymore;
you don't want sex or
anything that connects us
as husband and wife..
Either you're cheating on me or you don't love me anymore; whatever
the case, I'm gone.
You're EX-Husband
P.S. Don't try to find me.
Your SISTER and I are moving away to
West Virginia together!
Have a great life!
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Dear Ex-Husband -
Nothing has made my day more complete
than receiving your letter.
It's true that you and I have been married
for seven years, although a good
man is a far cry from what you've been.
I watch my soaps so much
because they drown out your constant
whining and griping.
Too bad that it doesn't work.
I DID notice when you
got a hair cut last week, but
the first thing that came to mind was
'You look just like a girl!'
Since my mother raised me
not to say anything
if you can't say something nice,
I didn't comment.
And when you cooked my favorite meal,
you must have gotten me confused with
MY SISTER,
because I stopped eating pork
seven years ago.
About those new silk boxers: I turned
away from you because the $49.99
price tag was still on them, and I
prayed that it was a coincidence that
my sister had just borrowed fifty
dollars from me that morning.
After all of this, I still loved you and
felt that we could work it out.
So when I hit the lotto for ten million
dollars , I quit my job and
bought us two tickets to Jamaica ...
But when I got home you were
gone.
Everything happens for a reason, I
guess.
I hope you have the fulfilling life you have always wanted.
My lawyer said that the letter you wrote ensures you won't get a
dime from me.
So take care.
Signed,
Your Ex-Wife, Rich As Hell and Free!
P.S.
I don't know if I ever told you
this, but my sister Carla was born
Carl. I hope that's not a problem.
- Sweet N Little
- 02-16-2011, 11:31 AM
- Stangster
- 06-12-2011, 05:03 PM
How about this one just sub the names to suit...
Dear Connie,
I know the counselor said we shouldn't contact each other during our "cooling off" period, but I couldn't wait anymore. The day you left, I swore I'd never talk to you again. But that was just the wounded little boy in me talking. Still, I never wanted to be the first one to make contact. In my fantasies, it was always you who would come crawling back to me. I guess my pride needed that. But now I see that my pride has cost me a lot of things. I'm tired of pretending I don't miss you. I don't care about looking bad anymore. I don't care who makes the first move as long as one of us does.
Maybe it's time we let our hearts speak as loudly as our hurt. And this is what my heart says "There's no one like you, Connie." I look for you in the eyes and breasts of every woman I see, but they're not you. They're not even close. Two weeks ago, I met this girl at Flamingos and brought her home with me. I don't say this to hurt you, but just to illustrate the depth of my desperation.
She was young, maybe 19, with one of those perfect bodies that only youth and maybe a childhood spent ice skating can give you. I mean, just a perfect body. Tits like you wouldn't believe and an ass that just wouldn't quit. Every man's dream, right? But as I sat on the couch being blown by this stunner, I thought, look at the stuff we've made important in our lives. It's all so superficial.
What does a perfect body mean? Does it make her better in bed? Well, in this case, yes, but you see what I'm getting at. Does it make her a better person? Does she have a better heart than my moderately attractive Connie? I doubt it. And I'm never really thought of that before.
I don't know, maybe I'm just growing up a little. Later, after I'm tossed her about a half a pint of throat yogurt, I found myself thinking, "Why do I feel so drained and empty?" It wasn't just her flawless technique or her slutty, shameless hunger, but something else. Some nagging feeling of loss. Why did it feel so incomplete? And then it hit me. It didn't feel the same because you weren't there to watch. Do you know what I mean? Nothing feels the same without you. Jesus, Connie, I'm just going crazy without you. And everything I do just reminds me of you.
Do you remember Carol, that single mom we met at the Holiday Inn lounge last year? Well, she dropped by last week with a pan of lasagna. She said she figured I wasn't eating right without a woman around. I didn't know what she meant till later, but that's not the real story.
Anyway, we had a few glasses of wine and the next thing you know, we're banging away in our old bedroom. And this tart's a total monster in the sack. She's giving me everything, you know, like a real woman does when she's not hung up about her weight or her career and whether the kids can hear us. And all of a sudden, she spots that tilting mirror on your grandmother's old vanity. So she puts it on the floor and we straddle it, right, so we can watch ourselves. And it's totally hot, but it makes me sad, too. Cause I can't help thinking, "Why didn't Connie ever put the mirror on the floor? We've had this old vanity for what, 14 years, and we never used it as a sex toy."
Saturday, your sister drops by with my copy of the restraining order. I mean, Vicky is just a kid and all, but she's got a pretty good head on her shoulders and she's been a real friend to me during this painful time. She's given me lots of good advice about you and about women in general. She's pulling for us to get back together, Connie, she really is. So we're doing Jell-O shots in a hot bubble bath and talking about happier times. Here's this teenage girl with the same DNA as you and all I can do is think of how much she looked like you when you were 18. And that just about makes me cry.
And then it turns out Vicky's really into the whole anal thing, that gets me to thinking about how many times I pressured you about trying it and how that probably fueled some of the bitterness between us. But do you see how even then, when I'm thrusting inside your baby sister's cinnamon ring, all I can do is think of you. It's true, Connie. In your heart you must know it. Don't you think we could start over? Just wipe out all the grievances away and start fresh? I think we can.
If you feel the same please, please, please let me know.
Otherwise, can you let me know where the fucking remote is.
Love, Dan
Dear Connie,
I know the counselor said we shouldn't contact each other during our "cooling off" period, but I couldn't wait anymore. The day you left, I swore I'd never talk to you again. But that was just the wounded little boy in me talking. Still, I never wanted to be the first one to make contact. In my fantasies, it was always you who would come crawling back to me. I guess my pride needed that. But now I see that my pride has cost me a lot of things. I'm tired of pretending I don't miss you. I don't care about looking bad anymore. I don't care who makes the first move as long as one of us does.
Maybe it's time we let our hearts speak as loudly as our hurt. And this is what my heart says "There's no one like you, Connie." I look for you in the eyes and breasts of every woman I see, but they're not you. They're not even close. Two weeks ago, I met this girl at Flamingos and brought her home with me. I don't say this to hurt you, but just to illustrate the depth of my desperation.
She was young, maybe 19, with one of those perfect bodies that only youth and maybe a childhood spent ice skating can give you. I mean, just a perfect body. Tits like you wouldn't believe and an ass that just wouldn't quit. Every man's dream, right? But as I sat on the couch being blown by this stunner, I thought, look at the stuff we've made important in our lives. It's all so superficial.
What does a perfect body mean? Does it make her better in bed? Well, in this case, yes, but you see what I'm getting at. Does it make her a better person? Does she have a better heart than my moderately attractive Connie? I doubt it. And I'm never really thought of that before.
I don't know, maybe I'm just growing up a little. Later, after I'm tossed her about a half a pint of throat yogurt, I found myself thinking, "Why do I feel so drained and empty?" It wasn't just her flawless technique or her slutty, shameless hunger, but something else. Some nagging feeling of loss. Why did it feel so incomplete? And then it hit me. It didn't feel the same because you weren't there to watch. Do you know what I mean? Nothing feels the same without you. Jesus, Connie, I'm just going crazy without you. And everything I do just reminds me of you.
Do you remember Carol, that single mom we met at the Holiday Inn lounge last year? Well, she dropped by last week with a pan of lasagna. She said she figured I wasn't eating right without a woman around. I didn't know what she meant till later, but that's not the real story.
Anyway, we had a few glasses of wine and the next thing you know, we're banging away in our old bedroom. And this tart's a total monster in the sack. She's giving me everything, you know, like a real woman does when she's not hung up about her weight or her career and whether the kids can hear us. And all of a sudden, she spots that tilting mirror on your grandmother's old vanity. So she puts it on the floor and we straddle it, right, so we can watch ourselves. And it's totally hot, but it makes me sad, too. Cause I can't help thinking, "Why didn't Connie ever put the mirror on the floor? We've had this old vanity for what, 14 years, and we never used it as a sex toy."
Saturday, your sister drops by with my copy of the restraining order. I mean, Vicky is just a kid and all, but she's got a pretty good head on her shoulders and she's been a real friend to me during this painful time. She's given me lots of good advice about you and about women in general. She's pulling for us to get back together, Connie, she really is. So we're doing Jell-O shots in a hot bubble bath and talking about happier times. Here's this teenage girl with the same DNA as you and all I can do is think of how much she looked like you when you were 18. And that just about makes me cry.
And then it turns out Vicky's really into the whole anal thing, that gets me to thinking about how many times I pressured you about trying it and how that probably fueled some of the bitterness between us. But do you see how even then, when I'm thrusting inside your baby sister's cinnamon ring, all I can do is think of you. It's true, Connie. In your heart you must know it. Don't you think we could start over? Just wipe out all the grievances away and start fresh? I think we can.
If you feel the same please, please, please let me know.
Otherwise, can you let me know where the fucking remote is.
Love, Dan