Hi, Atlantic Station.  It’s me, Katherine.

I’m not sure how to start this.

Look, it’s been about two years since you’ve been here, and about a year and a half for you and me together.  And believe me when I say that you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen when I first came here, the first to show me so many things.  With you, I started to remember what it was like to be myself, but to be happy.

But now… it’s been a long time, right? We have some great memories.  But we’re different now, you and I.

This… this is just so hard.  So I’m just going to come right out and say it–I think we should see other people.

Please don’t be upset with me.  I’ve thought long and hard about this, about everything, and all of the times we shared, but I keep coming back to this conclusion.  Don’t believe for a second that you’re not good enough, because you are! Believe me.  Um… something specific? Okay… well… No one has a theater as big as yours.  And I’ve been to a lot of theaters, believe me. Heh.

Uh, anyway. No. You’re wonderful.  You’re going to make so many people happy. And you made me happy, but we’re moving past each other in our lives, I think. I mean, look.  You’re busy with Cirque du Soleil and the normal rush.  I’m busy with other things too.  My job, some different hobbies, now.  It’s been pretty clear for about a month that our priorities are quite different.  You haven’t been very easy to get in contact with this last month, even though I’ve been trying hard, really hard.

So I just don’t think this five-times-a-week thing will work anymore.  Even if we were together, I would only be able to manage once, maybe twice a week with  my current schedule.

What? No,  that other gym has nothing to do with it. I can’t believe you’d think that…

Oh, we’ll I’ve only been inside it once. ONCE.  And that was after you told me there was someone else, too.  This isn’t what it’s about.

Okay, that is what this is about.

Honestly?

Fine.  Just the Midtown location. I swear.

Okay, and Ansley Mall.  But I haven’t even been there; I’ve already set a date though.

Yes, I do know that Midtown doesn’t have a theater.  And yes, I know it doesn’t have a pool either.  Thanks.

Look, you can’t say you didn’t see this coming.  You have no right to get mad about it.  You seemed to kind of shrug this off last month anyway.  I came a few times, even, and you were closed. Closed! When I needed you most.  Oh, and then you were conveniently unavailable over the holidays.  I really don’t know what you expect.

This isn’t going to work.  I stand by my decision.  We have to see other people.  It will be better for both of us in the long run.

I can’t do this anymore.  I have to go.  It’s too hard.

Katherine

PS: I still love you very much.  I hope you know that.

Dear Comcast,

You fucking suck.

Since we all already know this, I will not expound upon the many reasons why you blow huge testicles. Those reasons have already been written about over and over in the many internet forums that exist. In fact, you can find these forums and postings by typing in, “Comcast sucks” into any search engine.

Anyway, as of right now, I am happy to continue leeching internet from my neighbors, who don’t seem to mind leaving their network unlocked. Sucks for them and you, whom I’m not paying the requisite $33.99 per month for cable television that I didn’t order.

Fuck you very much,

KLA

Dear Screamer,

While I realize how wonderful it is that you can bench press 405 lbs three times in succession, I would like to request that you keep your inappropriate grunting and orgasm-like moans to yourself. I find that this noise and spectacle make it difficult for me to maintain proper form and balance during my own exercises, less than ten feet away.

This is not stated in the rules anywhere, and I know you do indeed derive great pleasure from the pulsating veins in your temples, the solid metallic bar between your hands, and the ripping sensation your pectoral muscles undergo when your lackey heaves the weight up off the supports for you. And I know it must be heavenly, the way that same metal bar bounces off your heaving chest, back into the air with so little effort at all, only to rest once more when you realize you cannot feel your arms anymore because you’re just that awesome.

For the rest of us meager beings who lay out on a flat bench, do our reps slowly, and sweat just as much but vocally express so little, I know that we must seem amateur. I apologize on behalf of the rest of the gym for giggling when we saw your terrible and bloated face sprinkling drops of sweat onto the floor when you squeezed into that strange rubber half-shirt you have. I am sure it serves some purpose. And I apologize for rolling my eyes when you continued to grunt, scream, and moan, for I realize it is terribly difficult lifting that amount of weight. I too, overcompensate for my physical and emotional shortcomings by impressing others with my female biceps, my massive 10-rep, 3-set regimen with my 5 lbs weights. I understand completely. I suppose I simply lack the courage it takes to let my hair come undone from its ponytail, to let the sweat that forms on my brow roll down and shower the floor for other people to slip in, to express my deep satisfaction with a long, sultry oooooohhhhhh yes! Yes! Yes!

But for now, I hope you understand. I would not want to interfere with the burgeoning of a Hulk-like creature, the one you are certainly striving to become.

Thank you very much.

Sincerely,

Katherine

PS: I was walking behind you today and noticed that the gym smelled of spearmint BreathSavers. This instantly brought me back to my freshman year in college, when I was attempting to befriend Dunbar, another gym rat of less status than you, and wooed him with continual offerings of these delectable mints.

For a moment I felt happy, like I was much younger and just beginning on my own path of fitness, or back in Intro to Biology when I hand them over after he punched me for one.

And then I realized it was your pungent Icy/Hot or Arnica gel. And that you had rubbed it all over your body, but not all the way. It was streaked across your shoulders like sunscreen, although we were indoors. The smell became so strong my eyes watered.

Perhaps next time you may be so kind as to use an ice pack for your aching muscles? Or a Vicodin? I’m sure you will understand.

Dear colony of Periplaneta americana that lives in this building,

I officially give up. You may have this apartment beginning on September 1, 2008. My roommate and I will be out by then.

Please note that there is a perpetual smell of paint, that sometimes when you turn on the exhaust fan over the stove the circuit trips and turns off power to half the apartment, and that the apartment comes with annoying, unfriendly, and possibly illegal neighbors.

But then again, you are roaches, and you probably don’t care that they’re that way. In fact the more fiestas they throw and the messier they are, the better, right? And if they annoy you then you can have all of your distant relations over to annoy them.

I wish you every happiness in this place. Hopefully it will suit you better in the coming months than it has us. Don’t worry; it is a nice place. We must simply move on, see?

Sincerely,

Katherine