It's over.
Things have been dicey between us for a while now, John. I've tried to tolerate your quirks. I've tried to make the best of it. No more.
That thing you do where you chirp ten times right after you've finished? HATE that. If I wanted to be chirped at first thing in the morning, I'd buy a parakeet. Also, that thing where you randomly flash 98.6 at me? Hate that too. You're supposed to be measuring basal body temperature, John, and nobody has a basal body temperature of 98.6. It always left me feeling like I didn't measure up to your standards.
The kicker, though, is that you just haven't been telling me the truth. Before I brought you into my home -- into my sock drawer, even -- I checked you out. You were supposed to be so great, John. So when you gave me two numbers that were three-tenths of a degree apart, I just thought to myself, "Maybe he's having a bad day. It's good that I know which one must be right."
And then two weeks ago -- I can hardly bear to write about it. You gave me three different numbers. Three! I applied my ingenuity (and, okay, a healthy measure of optimism) to interpreting the things you told me with your forked tongue. Two weeks later I was in a tizzy, saying, "Ooooooohhhhhh okayokayokay. Should it be Cyril? or Methodius?" After some tizzified counting on my fingers I realized it was you, John: you steered me wrong. You misled me. And you can't be part of my life if you're not going to be straight with me.
I'm going to be fine, Mr. Lying McLiarpants John. I'm moving on with someone new, someone I went out searching for juuuust as soon as I knew I'd need temps again before 2013. I think we'll be very happy together. I wish you all the best with your new life in the bathroom -- measuring the occasional fever, and thinking bitter thoughts of your former cozy life in the sock drawer.
Yours riding-off-into-the-sunset-ly,
Jamie
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