An Open Letter

Dear Mike,

Can I call you Mike? I wouldn't think you'd mind, considering the number of intimate details you've passed along over the years. Now I realize that I don't know the real you, and frankly, I think that's for the best. The interest in using muscle-building "supplements" that you can't pick up at the GNC was the first red flag, but who knows, maybe Bonds was right and it's all just flaxseed oil. Later, of course, came the "adult friend finder" account, but who am I to judge you and your adult friends. But now, Mike, with all this money business, I've had enough, and I'm again asking you to stop.

Between the loan from your father-in-law and your wife's worries about the budget and the late night messages from ssmmyy asking if you've sent the money yet, Mike, it just seems like it all might come crashing down. I just don't know if you can keep all these balls in the air. I mean, considering that you've yet to realize that your hotmail messages are still being forwarded to the cell phone number you gave up TWO YEARS AGO, attention to detail is not your strong suit.

I've tried, Mike, I've really tried. I've tried to block the messages, tried to reply-- to you, your wife, your friends. When they've called, I've talked to Dell computer, the Air Force base, your kids' school, and if I knew how the hell to get in touch with you, I'd have been glad to pass that along so you can finally extricate your life from mine. But it's up to you, Mike. It's up to you. Face facts. This is no longer your number. It may have been before, but it's not now, and it won't be again. So please, Mike: LET IT GO.