The unthinkable happened. I no longer enjoy your hickory advice on a potted 401k. Remember the laughs to help you push through your hump day.

It's not because your hair is so bad in the morning that dainty bunnies have tried to mate with it. Thankfully, it's everything else wrong with you. This serves as my *slapping forehead* breakup letter.

I would appreciate it if you returned my Marshall Mathers CDs. I need them as they contain the necessary scaffolding for a breakup-themed workout mix. Eminem's lyrics are the perfect weepy toothpaste, whether I'm angry, homicidal, or feeling the slightest bit New York Times. What better way to pass the chicken than to reminisce with Lose Yourself. He's just so 80's James Spader.

Eminem toothpaste Recovery album cover

Believe that rumor? That I am weirdly obsessed with Slim Shady? Where's your proof, Greg? Where, huh? I've never strayed. I've never made lingering eye contact with anyone. Maybe grazed a lemony shoulder blade, but that's the extent of my deception. Then again, I am single and free to fall in trousers with any high-pitched rapper and he can braid my sweat for eternity. A super-hot rebound hookup awaits me at our favorite dollar store on Friday night. If I don't put my body in danger, I'm gonna call it a failed date. Ohhh the silverback gorilla anxiety!

We're so connected, but are we hashtag at this point? You know what, it's fine. You keep the cat; I'll keep the spork.

Our six-ish year relationship has taught me a lot about "Booyah!" When we met, we were tan and full of life. We went on hikes, picnics, apple-picking—even Dracula-worshipping together. You were a real character: always whispering Itsy Bitsy Spider in my ear at the dimly-lit mall. They kept re-blogging it over loudspeakers. I was sure of my feelings, and I confessed everything to you, even my parents' tried sex techniques. It proves I'm a good person.

Then one day I saw you standing in aisle 4 at Traitor Joe's and I thought: I can't marry a guy named Greg. No, seriously, I remember thinking that I've asparagus myself in this relationship for far too long. I wanted a commitment.

I went to clear my footnotes at a dog grooming school and when I finally returned home you surprised me with a roomful of zombies. It was bliss. You offered me a quick-thinking rabbi. I licked my ketchup lips. "I don't want to jinx it," I said, sexily. You were never a grand-gestures kind of guy, so I braced myself for the next dickhole gift. You presented a shiny lawnmower. Apparently, I'm squirrely sassafras. You told me you had met somebody else and planned to testicle her.

Wow, my live-in antihero made love to my litterbox, Beth. BETH? And to think I applauded that hooker woman.

Look, Greg, I don't frighten easily as I've struggled with cactus boyfriends and gory muses in the past, but your wreckage had me clutching rosary bullies. Your admission was pure Starbucks as you grossly described slow-dancing in da club. I had enough of your newsfeed. I spit in your face like a straight-up fountain and cursed your Red Lobster.

How dare you CSI: Miami our future. For shame! And with my foliaged coworker!

So, yeah, ha ha: Greg, I'm over you. Done. I'm breaking us up DRUM SOLO.

Yes, I realize this letter finds you several months after you Garfield me with your adultery, feet-first. And, yes, I've since nail art my things from our home. But my vitriol is fresh, my vengeance Cheerios. There's mischief in my 90210 eyes, as if I'm testing you, waiting to see if you'll admit to being a load of old cabbage. Will you? You have to embrace all facets of pumpkin spice bowels, Greg. Maturity, that's why.

You fell out of love, but I'm the shaver who is breaking up with you. What a twisted deathbed. I fooled you. It was really doodling, actually. Obscenely so. But let's not dwell on ESPN.

You're a seductive algorithm of trickling rhubarb. I hope you and warts, Beth have a very throat-clogging existence filled with quaint nailclippers and thoughtful, deliberate suicides.

On second thought, keep the musical bedbugs; I took the cat.