Dear Ugly Sweater,
Who do you think you are?
Really, though. You come around here with your stupid fuzzy sleeves and lame catchphrases and think you are gonna get some action? Well, I’ve got something to tell you.
I’M HOT. AND SWEATY. AND I CAN’T HANDLE IT ANYMORE.
Your warmth is suffocating. At night I dream about grabbing my sheers and cutting you up into a perfect little macrame tube top. Or anything that lets me fucking BREATH. You’re not the only one in the relationship, Ugly Sweater. Accommodating your lover is clearly something you’ve forgotten about.
When we began this infatuation we were different people. You had that job at the mall, you were a provider! Now, you just sit around with your friends in boxes and I’m a sloppy drunk. For Christ’s sake, there was snow on the ground and a tree in our living room. We snuggled by the fireside and I felt safe, baby.
NOW I’M FREAKING OUT.
It’s fucking 90 degrees and I think I’m moving on. You know I love you, Ugly Sweater. It’s just time for me to leave.
P.S. Don’t call.