Mad Atoms

Sitting at the bottom of my sock drawer, is this pre-penned Dear Jane letter, ending our yet-to-have-happened relationship detailing how things might have went wrong  

I’m breaking up with you, Megan Fox.  No doubt, some will call me horse-stupid for ending a romance with FHM’s Hottest Woman Alive (2008).  To wit, I’ve been called horse-stupid before, and it never stops hurting, but the pain of having one’s intelligence described as equestrian is nowhere near that of keeping secrets of the heart.  Devastating, but true.  Before we devolve into a pissing contest of tears, let me just say how this definitely hurts me more than it hurts you, because I am a sensitive guy--yes even more sensitive than a girl being dumped by a guy who is more sensitive than a girl being dumped.  

Did you think this would go on forever Megan Fox? Couldn’t you see the day would come when you denied one too many of my tattoo suggestions and the darkness of now would happen? Sure, when it comes to single father 90s TV stars with manicured eyebrows, you can’t get “Brian” inked fast--and near enough to your private parts, but when yours truly presents a drawing of Elmer Fudd being sucked into a time vortex, all you can say is “I’m not tattooing whatever that’s supposed to be over my entire left tit.” 

It was supposed to be my Valentine’s Day gift to you, Megan Fox. The gift of laughter, of art…the art of love. Something you obviously know nothing about.

But sadly that wasn’t the only tattoo you selfishly vetoed.  I poured my soul into the idea of a hybrid supercar known as the Ferrarborghini spelling out my name in laser tracks across your back. You were preoccupied with your 3GS at the time, and didn’t look up, but promised to “think about it.” Then, a few days later, what headline should appear on the cover of Us Weekly but “Fox Mocks Boyfriend’s Tattoo Ideas.” I had never been so humiliated. You chose Hollywood over me, a freelance blogger, who works part time at the Geffen Playhouse, and that is a hurt from which I may never recover.   

What we had was special, Foxie-poo, but you threw it all away. For what? To pretend to run away from robots with that turvy-nosed meathead Shia LaBeouf?   Did you ever once stop to think that maybe I wanted to pretend to run away from robots with you?  To say this is squarely your fault would be accurate.  Perhaps if you cared a little more how I thought your body should look, this would be a love letter, and the two of us would be beaming over the freshly healed depiction of a miniaturized version of myself peeking out from behind your hot ear.  Consider this relationship over.