(Rest In a Place of Augmented Torment and Prolonged Misery)
Honey? We need to talk.
I've... met someone. I know, I know. I told you so many times that I'd always love you, but, well, things change. Lately you've had so many problems, and I guess it just wore me down. I felt maybe we had turned a corner after working through our crisis of a couple weeks ago, and then last week's hiccup, but now with your latest problem* it just seems too much. Too much! I'm convinced now that there is no bottom to your demands, that you'll never be happy, that you can't be relied upon. And that just doesn't work for me. I need to be able to count on you.
And then, at just my weakest moment, I met... her. She was so young and vibrant and modern and, well, just plain sexy. Her demands were so modest, her charms so irresistible.
And what a body! Don't cry, honey. I'm sure you'll find somebody new when you get out of the hospital. But I'm just not ready to surrender my youth entirely to your bourbon-and-lobster crowd. I'm still alive and kickin' and I intend to spend these days with someone with more energy and vitality. Someone more Civic-minded!
Farewell, O gatekeeper of frat house regurgitation euphemisms.
*I drove home from Kentucky on Sunday and, while trolling the Buick lot the next day to look at their new Lucerne CXL (which, with delicious foreshadowing, is airline-speak for cancel) I suddenly didn't have reverse. No reverse gear. I went straight to a transmission shop, who informed me that a $2,000 rebuild was required. I in turn ran promptly to the arms of the local Honda dealer.