"Sweetie, what is the problem?" she asked.

What is the problem?

You have the audacity to ask me that? Now?

Seriously, I've taken as much of your shit as I'm going to take. We've been together for two years, and I'm done.

Done.

But, you know, I'm sick of biting my tongue. I have things to get off of my chest.

Your "famous Chicken Kiev" for starters...

It tastes like a hobo's ass. And not one of those high-class squeegee-using hobos. The Lysol drinking kind. Speaking of, do you actually put Lysol in that recipe? Lemon Pledge?

Oh, and before I forget, saying, "Is it okay if I use a little teeth?" does not prepare one for the Tasmanian Devil on an ear of corn events that soon followed. It was harrowing. I just closed my eyes and thought of England.

And your legs... It's like spooning a cactus. Honestly. I now know where they get the stuff they make SOS pads with.

And, yes, your favourite pants DO make your ass look big. In fact, when you walk it looks like two bags of milk fighting on top of a washing machine.

Yes, I know that milk comes in boxes now.

Those fancy red shoes that you adore and wear all the time... The last time I saw shoes that ugly they were sticking out from under a Kansas farmhouse that had just been dropped by a twister. Hey, here's an idea: Ask the wizard for some fashion sense!

Your dog... Well, I actually like your dog.

Your mother!! My word... If I ever have to hear her say, "Well, in MY opinion..." one more time, I am going to have her killed. I'm not kidding. I know a guy who knows some guys from Kazakhstan. It'll be relatively painless. Unless I have to pay extra for that.

And I totally WAS looking at your friend the other night.

I fucking loathe you.

Go to hell.

"Fine, you can have the remote control back," she replied.

Yay!! Let's watch "Pimp My Ride."