Dear Francine,
I wish I wasn’t gagged, so I could tell you what’s been on my mind using spoken words–instead of grunts and vowels blocked by a slobbery rubber ball. I wish I wasn’t deaf, so that I could hear your heart breaking when you read this letter. Most of all, I wish I wasn’t blind, so I could see your face when you’ve seen what I had the boy down the street do to your things (serves you right, you fecalphiliac).
I hate everything you’ve done to me; the poisoning, the abestos-filled pillows, the anthrax-lined letters. I am sick of the undercooked meat, salmonilla-soaked sponges, and your nasty crack-smoking habit. What’s more, I hate the way you park the car. I hate the way you laugh at jokes that aren’t funny. I just hate you so much, Francine– I hate you more than life itself. Why were you trying to kill me? ‘Playtime,’ I believe you called it. It was fun when we first started…the handcuffs on the bed, the mouse-traps in certain unmentionable places, the leather masks and straps, the list goes on for scrolls; but once you started playing with knives and tasers, the fun just oozed out of one of the stab wounds you gave me.
For so long, I have allowed you to do what you wished to me because I thought I was in love with you. Turns out, I was just dependent on you. I thought I needed you to satisfy my unhealthy sexual lusts and urges. Turns out, I just needed you to make me dinner (which, by the way, was shitty even when NOT tainted with lye). I thought screaming about the excruciating pain and my begging and pleading for you to “PLEASE STOP HURTING ME!” would work. Turns out, it just turned you on more. You’re a really sick bitch. Oops! My mistake…a really sick butch. Francine, you have deep-seeded mental problems, and I think you need to start seeing Dr. Masters again as soon as possible.
That’s it Francine. I want o-u-t, OUT of this relationship as of this very sentence. If I ever see (oh wait- I CAN’T see anymore, thanks to the hot wax incident) you again, I’ll have a restraining order filed on you so fast that it will make your head spin. Just stay away from me, Francine.
You; can keep the pleather couches.
–Frankie;
PS. But I DO want my Pulp Fiction VHS back.