Dear, John

Have you ever written or received a “Dear John” letter? I think I’ve written a couple in my lifetime, but I never actually sent them. Writing my thoughts out was enough of the catharsis I needed, and by the time I got to the end of the letter; salutation of:

Sincerely,

Go Fuck Yourself

p.s. Go Fuck Yourself, Sideways


I seemed to feel much better.


If you really think about it, the act of writing the letter is the peace you’re looking for. If you foolishly agree to meet with your “Dear John” and try and have a conversation about what you should have written in a letter in the first place, well, you could potentially end up in make-out, make-up, sex session and then you’re really fucked (in more ways than one). Because you’re right back to where you started; thinking about the need to write a “Dear John” letter.

I write about everything. Good. Bad. Every, single, God damn thing that crosses a synapse in my brain gets logged into a notebook stored into my purse, a "just in case" journal stuffed into my laptop’s carrying bag, or a grocery store receipt will do; scribbling down an idea for a story, that I’m later looking at wondering if I was drunk when I wrote it, because I can’t read my own penmanship. If I’m really lucky though, I have access to a computer and I can type my thoughts out until the cows come home, or the next bus comes, with a new boyfriend riding inside to replace the last, “Dear John.”


Tell me about your “Dear John”, or “Dear Jane” letters.