Dear Mr. Finchburg,

First off, I want to thank you for volunteering your time teaching pottery at Parsippany New Jersey’s community center. I know it isn’t easy to pour your heart into something each and every day, and I thank you for your patience and perseverance.

Unfortunately, I have had trouble feeling fulfilled in this class. And after drinking a 6-pack of Miller High Life and watching The Social Network tonight, it all makes sense.

It’s no secret that I’m a man of big ambitions. When we were working on cups, I was crafting theses on the nature of life and death. When we advanced to clay vases, I was making better clay vases than everyone else.

And while everyone was congratulating Bethany for her shitty watering can, I was touching the skies of meaning and the depths of emotion.

Just as Mark Zuckerberg dropped out of Harvard, I too must spread my wings, leave the nest, and drop out of this pottery class.

It wasn’t an easy decision. It required a lot of soul-searching and a deep look into my past, present, and future. But I realized that succeeding is about more than just believing in myself, it’s about refusing to play it safe.

And that means dropping out of this pottery class in the midst of our coffee mug unit to focus on bigger and better things, like starting an innovative tech behemoth or making cookie jars that look like Spider-Man.

I also know this decision has meant alienated a lot of people. I’m sorry I shattered Bethany’s clay pot on the floor while calling her “talentless swine” the other week: every troubled genius needs to go through growing pains. Zuckerberg alienated the Winklevoss twins, and I alienated that moron Bethany who wouldn’t know art if it bit her in her equally stupid ass.

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Finally, I want to say I won’t forget about you, Mr. Finchburg, or the other students in the class. When Aaron Sorkin makes a movie about me, probably called “Soul of Clay” or “Not Claying Games,” I’ll make sure my early trials and tribulations are included. After all, what is a troubled genius without humble beginnings?

I’ll never forget you.

XOXO,
Andrew

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