The Commodores' first attempt.
Enclosed in this box you will find most of what you asked be returned to you. Here are your books, your Blu-rays, your cheap-o earphones, and that stupid robot vacuum cleaner. The dental floss you insisted I return because “you paid for it” is here. Also, while I’m not entirely certain why it’s so important I give you this specific towel, but here you go. I washed it, though, just to let you know. I hope that didn’t ruin whatever weird thing you’ve got going on with it. No, wait, I hope it did, actually.
Now then, on to the little matter of the Clayhouse wines you wanted back. Mainly, why that won’t be happening.
You see, Brad, I was pretty upset after chasing you and.. Oh, what was her name? Tramp? Hussy? The Collagen Experiment Gone Awry? Whatever. Basically, it wasn’t pleasant getting the two of you out of our bedroom and apartment. It took me a minute to control my thoughts and emotions, particularly the ones that told me I should burn all your stuff immediately.
So, I decided to have a glass of that Clayhouse Estate wine. The luscious flavors had a very calming effect on me as I read through the messages in your “Secret Emails” folder detailing just how long you’d been cheating on me. I nearly spit a whole mouthful of savory wine on the screen when I found the naughty photos you’d been sending her. Also, for your information, “Bradisrad27” is not a very secure password.
It wasn’t until I opened a second bottle of that Clayhouse 3-pack, though, that I finally came to terms with everything. Maybe it was the rich purply hues or the inviting aromas, I don’t know, but I really found myself at peace when I posted those pictures I found to every single social media site I could sign up for.
Let’s just call those Clayhouse Estate bottles an Asshat Tax, shall we, Brad? Think of it as the cost of doing business. But to show you there are truly no hard feelings, I’ve also thrown in the unused portions of the box of feminine hygiene products you bought when you purchased your precious floss. They’re technically yours, anyway.