Or, the Rustle of History's Wings. As they used to say.
All right, if we're going to be pursuing a relationship I think it would be best if we were honest with one another. Those Cornish game hens you cooked for me last night were not that great. I know, I ate the whole thing and raved about it at the time but things seem different when you wake up and see the sunshine leaning in the window, shining on a partially covered but still very naked, tiny chicken bone.
It's not you, though, it's me.
I still want to be friends. I just don't think we're really that compatible on that level, you know. There has to be a spark or it just won't work for me. You have a lot to love and I'm sure someone is going to come along and sweep you off your feet. And they'll do it before 4/10. I don't mind if your Daddy works in porno. That was never it. I know the time it takes when you're all alone. Someday you'll find someone that you can call your own. I just don't think it's going to be me.
Okay, fine! If you really must know, if you insist on weaseling it out of me it was your flavor. Are you happy now, knowing? You just tasted off; you tasted bad. I took all that time and attention and roasted you right. You were fucked up before we met and I only loved you for your pate-like stuffing! Happy? Now!? Your bacon-wrapped potatoes weren't any better than just rolling them in bacon fat and salt! It made no difference! Do you hear me, no DIFFERENCE! And you didn't cook your lardons enough, either!
Besides, I've met someone else. Please stop calling me. I have to...go...I, don't...er...oh!
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