My dearest love,
I am so sorry that it has come to this. I wish that I could speak to you in person, but, alas, you refuse to see or converse with me. You didn’t even respond to my midnight text: “JJ’s?”
I was, I will not lie, quite inebriated on Valentine’s Day, having crashed a pregame in that fateful Carman Hall. One too many Fireball shots found their way down my gullet and, after stumbling past the Carman security desk, I found myself staggering towards the most anticipated event of this new decade: the inaugural SEAS Gala.
Upon entrance to this mystic realm, my nostrils burned at the odor emanating from droves of unshowered, unshorn, and unseemly engineering students. They clustered, brooding, angsty, and unsure as to how, exactly, one communicates with another human being. The dearth of estrogen in this strange place, combined with the alcohol flooding my veins, drew me to her like a siren’s call. Her Master’s degree and Doctor of Philosophy from MIT seduced me immediately—I could not resist the intelligence exuding from her very being. Dean Boyce is, without a doubt, the most sexually compelling creature on this planet. One thing led to another, and my night, I am sorry to say, ended in the basement of Mudd.
I still love you, almost as much as I love her. I am sorry that I cannot get it up with you anymore. It would be better if you had a Doctor of Philosophy. Can we just be best friends again?
With my utmost condolences,
Your former lover