Dear John

I wanted to write to you to let you know why I’ve been avoiding, nay, boycotting your stupid ass for the last two months. (Just call me the Rosa Parks of the electronic webz.)

We’re bad for each other. You’re somewhat possessive — which may be from watching all of that Twilight pr0n, nerd — and I like my freedom and creativity. I’m wacky and you’re a little stuck in the box, able to see only what’s right in front of you, and, to tell the truth, somewhat disgusting. I’m a simple girl and you’re a complex series of tubes that allows someone to instantly get any information — correct or not — by a few clicks of a mouse and several keystrokes.

See, we’re like those Mac vs. PC commercials and I’m Justin Long and you’re that other dude. I can talk smack with Bruce Willis in a completely unnecessary fourth-quel and you just, well, have eight roles on your profile. And some of those aren’t even named characters, so watch out if you’re ever in a horror movie, because boy, are you going to get it.

We’re also like Xander and Anya when they sing in that musical episode of Buffy. So watch out, because you’re gonna leave me at the altar and then I’m going to become a Vengeance Demon again and try to kill you but then have lingering doubts, sleep with a vampire, and eventually get hacked in two. Wait a tic… I mean we have all of these things we hate about each other and we’re just so different that we’re unable to communicate about them. (And I doubt you can even blame the Shumash Tribe for all of those disease you have. Whew, man.)

Even Joss Whedon wouldn’t kill one of the two of us off, because we just don’t have that special chemistry, even if we did eventually end up kissing because we’re in a life-threatening situation and you’re about to get married to your childhood sweetheart and I’ve sworn off men altogether. We have as much romantic tension as the wooden boards actors in The Covenant.

You’re frustrating and I know I’m rather inept at keeping you clean and updating you occasionally. You take everything too literally and I haven’t learned how to do anything with you other than writing a blog that seven two people read and using an electronic version of a thesaurus that’s sitting on my computer desk right now.

But, alas, like most symbiotic relationships that don’t end with a bell tower and eyeliner, we need each other. Well, you don’t actually need me because you’re just an anthropomorphized version of something that allows me to write really horrible puns. But I need you because I hate people in real life, but people on you are kind of less annoying. Or maybe just less corporeal. Same thing, really. I also need you because then I don’t feel so alone in this world. Sad, but true.

So, Dear John, I hate your stinkin’ guts. You make me wanna vomit. You are the scum between my toes.


PS: I know your real name isn’t John, internet, but, like the song says, I’ll never tell. That’s the one thing that’s sacred between us, Jedediah. Oops.

PPS: God, is that what being Nicolas Sparks is like? Jeezy-chreezy.


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