Dear Chantal,
I don’t really know how to tell you this, but our romance is over. I think I realized it when when I threw up in your sock drawer at the mental hospital and I saw you pour syrup on my knee caps. I’m sure you’re open enough to understand that I get turned on only by garbage men. I’m returning your your pet rock to you, but I’ll keep your glass eye as a memory. You should also know that I get sick when I think of your fee and you should stop picking your nose.
Go milk a cow,
Nessa

Found this @ [link]